


Where The Sky And Water Meet

by watanuki_sama



Category: Common Law
Genre: (kind of), I'm Sorry, M/M, Metaphorical Sex, Mind bonding/mind meld, and all the dubious consent that comes with it, angst-heavy, including: one scene of dub-con, metaphorical everything, metaphors abound, sex or die, so many italics, the boys have issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-16
Updated: 2014-04-16
Packaged: 2018-01-19 14:00:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1472452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watanuki_sama/pseuds/watanuki_sama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s just that now, there is a connection where there was no connection before, a space between them that’s filled with <em>each other</em>, blending and merging until the dividing line between ‘<em>Travis</em>’ and ‘<em>Wes</em>’ is completely blurred.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where The Sky And Water Meet

**Author's Note:**

> Written based on this prompt from **theempathymachine** on tumblr: _The boys’ minds become linked because of reasons. Travis discovers all the guilt, issues, etc. running through Wes’s mind all day. Wes learns Travis isn’t as happy as he looks either. Telepathic banter._  
>  The prompt list can be found here: http://theempathymachine.tumblr.com/post/44964023810
> 
>  
> 
> **ALSO A HUGE THANK YOU TO THEEMPATHYMACHINE FOR BETA’ING THIS WHEN I HAD LOST ALL CONFIDENCE. THERE ARE NOT ENOUGH THANKS IN THE WORLD. YOU ARE AN ABSOLUTE DARLING.**

_“Love is born into every human being; it calls back the halves of our original nature together; it tries to make one out of two and heal the wound of human nature.”_  
 _—Plato, Symposium_

\---

It’s an innocuous little statuette, resting beside the dead man’s hand like it had been carelessly dropped there. Wes picks it up, turning it over. “What do you think this is for?”

“I don’t know,” Travis says, stepping over the second half of their murder-suicide. Or possibly a double-suicide. That’s what they’re here to find out. “But there’s another one over here. Maybe they had a fight and one of them threw that one?” He picks up the statuette.

There’s a crackle, and the sharp smell of ozone. White lightning darts from the statuette onto hands, cutting through the latex gloves and dancing on skin.

Wes drops his statuette, jerkily rising to his feet. Travis stands by the fireplace, face blanched, clutching the statuette like he’s trying to crush it.

One of the officers processing the scene gives them a worried look. “Detectives…?”

As one, they turn to her and snap, “Get Dr. Ryan.”

In that moment, they’re closer than they’ve ever been before.

\---

It’s not like they’ve suddenly become the same person. There’s still _Travis_ and there’s still _Wes_. They are still separate.

It’s just that now, there is a connection where there was no connection before, a space between them that’s filled with _each other_ , blending and merging until the dividing line between _Travis_ and _Wes_ is completely blurred.

People aren’t supposed to know each other like this.

\---

Travis paces. He always does that, moves when he’s distressed, waving his hands or pacing or tapping his fingers on something. He’s energetic when he’s upset, and now Wes knows that Travis’s mind is just as kinetic when he’s distressed.

Wes rubs his temples and says, “Please stop.” It’s taking all his self-control not to completely panic himself, and having Travis’s thoughts swirling through his mind isn’t helping matters. He tries to take deep breaths and pushes Travis away, trying to build a wall between himself and his partner, but Travis is a whirlwind tearing through the cracks, always moving and moving and _moving_.

Travis’s thoughts flow on the wind, disjointed fragments that are all parts of the puzzle but don’t stay still long enough to show the entire picture.

_Wes_

_not alone in my head, what’s going on can hear him thinking shut up Wes get out of my head_

_(always alone)_

_Lindsey Keener 39 single stab wound to the chest_

_telepathy mind bond what the hell_

_(cool I’m like an x-man not cool get out of my head Wes)_

_dr. ryan where are you?_

_ugly little statue thing_

_Jeremy Keener 43 .22 bullet through the roof of the mouth_

_wesweswesweswes_

_telepathic ugly little statue thing Jeremy Lindsey Keener single stab wound to the roof of the mouth_

round and round and Wes has to clutch the stoop in one hand because he feels like he’s drowning, tossed adrift by Travis’s whirlwind thoughts and the last time he felt like this he’d just lost everything _anthony padua wes you need to go back to work i’m sorry alex i need to be a cop and everything falls apart with a sentence_ —

Wes grabs at the memories, tries to haul them back before Travis can see, but they’re gone, caught up by the wind and taken away. He’s grateful that Travis doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does he doesn’t act on it, but Wes still feels like he’s going to be sick.

“Travis, _stop_!”

He shouts it not only with his voice but with his mind, pushing his nausea and headache and fear and panic at his partner, sharpened stones to cut through the winds and reach the other man.

It works. Travis stops dead in his tracks, looks over. Wes gets a glance of himself through Travis’s eyes, hunched on the stoop clutching his head, a picture twisted by emotions he can’t even begin to parse out right now; then the whirlwind fades, and Travis visibly pulls himself together.

“Sorry,” he says, and it’s there in his mind, too, _sorry sorry sorry_ circling around his shoddy walls. Wes is a little surprised, because the emotion is so _sincere_ here but Travis so rarely bothers to show it.

But it’s too much. It’s too much and he doesn’t want to know _any_ of this he just wants Travis _out of his head_ get out get out get out—!

“Wes—”

Before either of them can explode at each other—which is definitely where the build-up is heading—an ambulance squeals to a stop on the curb. On its heels is a silver sedan.

Dr. Ryan bustles up, takes one look at them, and, without even knowing the situation, says, “Breathe, boys. Calm down and breathe with me.”

It doesn’t calm them completely, but her presence makes the maelstrom ease. Thoughts of _helped a hopeless case like ours_ and _knows us better than anyone else_ fly between them too fast to tell whose thought it was originally.

\---

“I’m fine,” Travis says, jerking back from the penlight, “trust me, the problem is _not_ in my eyes.”

“You’ve had a shock,” the paramedic says, like she knows anything about it.

“I’m fine,” Travis insists again. That doesn’t stop her from taking his blood pressure (high), his temperature (perfectly normal), and listening to his heart (racing, what do you expect?). She wraps a shock blanket around his shoulders with a frown and steps away. Her partner, over with Wes by Dr. Ryan’s car, meets Travis’s paramedic and they start talking in hushed voices. Dr. Ryan continues the difficult task of getting the story out of Wes.

_Stop shaking_ , Travis demands, clutching his trembling hands together. _He’s_ not trembling, oh no, he’s perfectly in control of the situation. This whole thing is out of his control, and Travis knows _perfectly well_ how to deal with things out of his control, which makes him in control.

_I can’t_ , Wes replies, but underneath that is _drowning fear can’t do this again need my one-two-three-four hand sanitizer_ and orderly rows of numbers marching through a chaotic battlefield as Wes counts silently to try and calm himself down.

It’s not working. For Wes. Because Travis is fine and in control and he doesn’t need to count numbers or douse his hands in sanitizer to calm down. So what if his hands are shaking? So what if his heart is racing? It’s all Wes and Travis is perfectly in control.

_Stop trying to pin this all on me_ , Wes grumbles, sounding a little more like himself, which instantly makes Travis relax even though he’s hearing his partner’s voice inside his head. If Wes is fine then Travis is fine and everything is just _fine_.

And then Dr. Ryan comes up to him, and Travis takes one look at her face his stomach sinks.

She smiles gently and says, “Let’s get you two back to the station.”

\---

“This is going to be hard, but you have to try and stay calm. I know how impossible that seems right now, but panicking will not help anything. You will simply feed off of one another and make it worse. You must try to clear your thoughts, and stay calm.”

Wes has gone still. He stares out the window, and aside from an occasional tremor in his hands, he might as well be a statue. He looks almost as calm as Dr. Ryan wants them to be.

But he’s not. Travis knows.

Travis can feel it, inside his skull, because Wes is like the ocean and the waves are raging high. There are deadly undertows and monsters in the deep and it’s a churning mess of feelings sliding under Travis’s skin until he just needs to _move_ from all the emotion.

He taps his fingers against his knee and says, “You’ll help us, right?”

Dr. Ryan glances at him—at them both—in the rearview. “This is unprecedented,” she says honestly, “but I will do my best. You’re my patients. I will do what I can.”

Travis glances at Wes and hunkers down in his seat and tries to think calm thoughts.

\---

They’re fine in the parking garage. They’re fine in the lobby. They’re fine in the elevator.

And then they step out of the elevator and Wes is not fine anymore.

And no one would know if not for Travis.

Travis stumbles into the wall, clutching his chest and gasping like he’s drowning. Dr. Ryan rushes to his side, but Wes stands in place, clenching and unclenching his fingers.

“Travis?” Dr. Ryan puts an arm on his shoulder. “Are you alright?”

“Chest,” Travis wheezes, fingers tightening in his shirt. “C-can’t breathe. Tight. _Jesus_ , I’m g-gonna be sick.”

“You’re trembling,” Dr. Ryan observes, concerned. “Travis, I think you’re having a panic attack.”

“I _know!_ ” Travis snaps, and an image flashes through Wes’s mind of a teenage girl ( _foster sister Sarah ninth home_ ) sitting in her room, vomiting and hyperventilating because she’s too anxious to go to school. Oh yes, Travis knows what a panic attack looks like, he just never thought he’d feel one. “What the _hell?!_ ”

It’s not exactly a question. It’s an accusation aimed at Wes.

And just like that, Dr. Ryan knows. Her eyes snap to Wes, and she watches him clench his fists and she sees right through him and she just _knows_.

“Oh, Wes.”

She’s looking at him with sympathy and concern and maybe a little bit of pity and Wes grits his teeth. “It’s nothing.”

“Wes, if you’re having a panic attack—”

“ _I’m_ not,” Wes snarls, “ _Travis_ is. So take care of him.” Wes is _not_ having a panic attack because Wes is in control of himself, he doesn’t panic when he arrives to work, he just needs to take a moment or two to collect himself, that’s all. He’s not sick, he’s perfectly fine. He’s fine, he’s fine, _he’s fine!_

Travis flinches at the mental shout and gags into a planter.

“I’m fine,” Wes repeats out loud for Dr. Ryan’s benefit, and he stalks into the bullpen.

He doesn’t look at anyone on his way to his desk. He doesn’t speak to anyone. He just sits down and pumps Purell into his palm. _One-two-three-four_ , he recites, rubbing the liquid into his skin, _five-six-seven-eight_ , and he can feel his own symptoms (no they’re not symptoms of anything they’re just _quirks_ ) easing, but Travis’s emotions linger, _fearconcernanxiety Wes are you okay?_

Wes pumps more hand sanitizer into his palm. It’s not enough. His hands still tremble and his throat is tight, and he’s not sure if it’s residual effects from Travis or if it’s just him.

Forcing himself to take long breaths, Wes climbs to his feet and storms to the bathroom.

He passes both Travis and Dr. Ryan on the way, but neither of them say anything.

\---

Wes is washing his hands when Travis slides into the bathroom.

“It has to do with your former career, right?” Travis asks, feigning nonchalance. Like it’s the most normal conversation in the world to be having in an empty bathroom. “Your panic attacks. It has something to do with why you left law.”

Travis is right. Travis knows he’s right; he was inundated with the same despair and guilt Wes feels over Anthony Padua every day. Thoughts of _i can’t do it i can’t mess up again_ mix with _I’m so sorry mrs. padua please forgive me we regret to inform you_ —until he can feel his chest go tight once more.

Wes reaches for the soap and glares at his partner in the mirror. “Leave it alone, Travis.”

Travis flinches, either from the venom in Wes’s words or the shame in his thoughts, but he takes a step forward. “Does it happen every day?”

The humiliation intensifies, which is all the answer Travis needs.

“You know, Dr. Ryan could help. Or if you don’t want to talk to her, we could find someone else—”

“You want Dr. Ryan to help, Travis? Really? Then maybe we can talk about some of _your_ issues, too, huh?” Wes gives his partner a nasty grin and reaches for the soap. He doesn’t need to talk to Dr. Ryan or anyone else. He’s _fine_ , he’s handling it. He definitely doesn’t need a shrink meddling in his life or Travis poking around in his head.

Travis has the audacity to look hurt. “I’m only trying to help, Wes.”

“I don’t need your help,” Wes snarls, reaching for the soap.

Travis stares at him with eyes that can see right through his lie.

“Yeah, Wes, you do. Because you won’t ask for it, and no one else will offer.”

Travis leaves, but his concern remains in Wes’s mind like an imprint. It leaves a bitter taste in the back of his throat. He reaches for the soap.

It takes him a long time to return to his desk.

\---

“We’re going to have you try something,” Sutton says, waving them into his office after his extensive talk with Dr. Ryan. The room already smells like incense.

Travis sneezes. Wes wrinkles his nose like he’s trying to avoid sneezing too. “Meditation?” Travis guesses, warily taking a seat.

“Sort of,” Dr. Ryan says, pulling the blinds on the window closed. “It’s a bit like meditation and a bit like hypnotherapy.”

“Are you qualified to do hypnotherapy?” Wes questions in his lawyer voice. That’s the one he uses when he’s feeling uncomfortable. Travis already knew that, but it’s one thing to know and another thing to feel the defensive itch of agitation prickle the back of his eyes and _know_. Plus, Wes is still feeling ashamed about his panic attack earlier and upset at being caught and it’s just a horrible painful mess of emotions, and Travis shifts in his seat and resists the urge to pace. He taps his fingers on his thigh.

“I am qualified to employ hypnotherapy in my practice,” Dr. Ryan assures the both of them. “It’s generally not necessary in couple’s counseling, I’ve found, but these are special circumstances.” She settles in the last chair, creating a triangle amongst the three of them. Sutton settles in his own chair, out of the way but there to supervise and intervene if anything goes wrong.

Dr. Ryan takes a breath. “Now, close your eyes…”

\---

There is a place where the sky and water meet. In this place they float, two minds reaching out and touching when they have never touched before. The wind reaches out to caress the waves, and the water rises up to meet it.

“Very good. Tell me, what do you feel?”

What do they feel?

They feel—

—sensations. Memories of places they’ve never been, people they’ve never met.

—moods, passed between them like cheap shots, swallowed and then ignored because they don’t have the experiences to understand. But then the experience comes, and context slots into place, and all of a sudden those moods are staggering in their potency.

—subconscious feelings, things they themselves never knew they felt. Little hurts and aches that they’ve shoved aside and ignored, not even realizing it was there until it gets passed along and magnified and amplified until it’s all they can see, fear and shame and disbelief—

They feel—

each other.

And it’s too much.

The waves rise and the winds roar and there is pain, hurts dredged from the deeps and anger falling from the atmosphere. The storm rages.

“Wes, Travis, I need you to calm down. Listen to me. Breathe. In… Out… In… Out… Listen to my voice and breathe with me. You are safe. You are alright. Just breathe with me. In… Out…”

They breathe. They subside. The waves settle, the winds ease, and they move in synchronicity, back and forth, sliding across one another but no longer raising the storm.

“Good. Very good. Just keep breathing.”

They breathe. The waters are still and the winds are calm.

“Perfect. Now. I want you to imagine a wall. There is a wall between the two of you, separating Travis from Wes, Wes from Travis. The wall is strong. There are no cracks. Nothing can get through. It is seamless.”

It forms, a barrier between them, concrete on one side and brick on the other. Firm, stable, unyielding. The wall could crumble if the land begins to shake, but there is no land here. There is only air and water and feelings and thoughts.

The wall is seamless. It is impenetrable. It is perfect.

This is unacceptable.

The waters rise up, lashing against the wall with the power to crumble cliffs. The winds howl against the barrier, titans screaming and blowing down mountains. The world where sky and water meet trembles.

“Boys, stop. The wall is gone. There is no wall. There is nothing between you. Breathe.”

The wall is gone like it never was and they still, moving in synchronicity once more. Back and forth, zephyrs and ripples flowing as one.

“It is not a wall. It is a fence. There is a barrier, but it has a gate. The gate is not locked. The only things that may pass through are the things you want to pass.”

It forms, link by link, right at the surface where sky meets water. But this time the waves do not rise to crush it, and the winds do not blow to batter it down. There is a gate, and there are holes in the metal links, and it is enough to reach through and feel each other. To know they are there, on the other side of the fence.

“You’re both doing very well. Now, how do you feel?”

They are content. 

“Wonderful. Now, I’m going to bring you out of it. Breathe with me, and when I count to three—”

\---

They open their eyes, and the first thing Wes asks is, “Did it work?”

Dr. Ryan smiles at them both. “You tell me.”

Travis gingerly reaches out, probing the back of his mind like a sore tooth. Wes is still there, still a pulsing presence in his brain, but he’s muted, somehow. He’s still feeling his partner, but it’s no longer a constant barrage he has to try and deal with. It’s just…a presence.

Travis slumps in relief. “Well, you didn’t cure us, but you definitely made it better. Thanks.”

“Indeed.” Wes’s words are flat, and he doesn’t look at anyone in the room. His arms are crossed and there are sharp defensive prickles poking the back of Travis’s eyes and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why Wes is so troubled.

Dr. Ryan glances over at Sutton. The man nods and silently rises to his feet. “I’ll give you a minute.”

When the door has shut, Dr. Ryan looks at them both and asks, “What’s the most important part of a relationship? Any kind of relationship.”

Neither of them answer.

“Trust,” Dr. Ryan says after a long minute of silence. “A relationship built on lies will crumble, but a relationship built on trust is strong. You two…you are a curious mix of both. You’ll trust each other with your lives, but you refuse to trust each other with your feelings.”

Travis shifts in his seat. Wes’s defensive prickles grow stronger.

“And now, in an unprecedented turn of events, you have literally been thrown into each other’s minds. You have and will continue to learn things about each other that you never knew. Some of it you may have suspected. Some of it will be a complete surprise.” She gives Wes a sidelong glance; Wes stares stoically at the wall, but a vein in his jaw twitches.

“Until this fades, or we reverse it, you must deal with it. But you will also have to deal with the aftermath. Knowing what you know about each other, even after you stop residing in each other’s minds.”

“What will happen if we don’t? Deal with the aftermath, I mean,” Travis says, asking the question both of them are thinking because Wes isn’t really in a talkative mood right now. They’re both _really good_ at just shoving things aside and not talking about them and not dealing with them. It works for them. So he’s genuinely curious why they can’t do that with this.

Dr. Ryan gives them a long, steady look. “If you don’t deal with the aftermath, then you will fall apart. This I can guarantee. These are not ordinary circumstances, so you can’t deal with them how you normally do. Which means if you avoid it, it will simply fester until you can no longer avoid it, and by then it will become poisonous rot that eats you from the inside out.” She says it like she’s seen it happen more than once, which, considering her career choice, is not improbable. 

“Poetic,” Wes snarks, because he doesn’t want to hear this. Travis understands. Neither of them want to think about _aftermath_ when they’ve barely gotten through an hour yet.

Dr. Ryan leans forward, pinning them to their seats with her stare and completely ignoring Wes’s unhelpfulness. “I will help you the best that I can, but ultimately, what happens after this is up to you.”

It sounds incredibly final when she puts it like that.

\---

After Dr. Ryan has left (giving them both her personal cell number and a firm admonishment to call _for any reason, any at all, these are special circumstances and I will break my own rules for this_ ) Sutton comes in and says, “You’re off the Keener case.”

They both start to protest, but the captain holds up his hand. “No. You’ve both been compromised. Until we figure out how to reverse this, I can’t trust you in the field.”

Travis starts saying, “Captain—”

“—we’ll be fine, we don’t need—” Wes continues.

“—to be taken off the case,” Travis finishes.

Sutton gives them a pointed glance.

“I want to believe you,” the captain sighs, “I do, but I’m not going to risk my best detectives just because you _say_ you’ll be alright. So until we get this all sorted out, you’re on desk duty.”

They both grumble protests, but the captain has a point and they both know it, so there’s not much they can do.

Sutton’s face softens. “Look. Boys. I’ve got some of our best people trying to figure this out. There’s nothing more you can do here. Take the rest of the day off. Rest. Relax. Maybe we’ll have an answer in the morning.”

Neither of them want to leave. They want to stay, and work their case, and figure out what the hell has happened to them and how to reverse it.

But Sutton is right. There’s nothing else they can do today.

As one, they leave the captain’s office. They don’t say a word.

They don’t need to.

\---

They linger in the parking lot. Wes isn’t sure if it’s because of the bond or because they’re both reluctant to let someone go who knows so much more than anyone else has ever learned.

“Trust.” Travis shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks on his heels, not quite looking at Wes. “That’s what Dr. Ryan said. It all comes down to trust. So do you trust me, Wes?”

A devil-may-care smile slides on Travis’s face, but his thoughts are a hesitant, uncertain mess, like he actually believes Wes might say _no_.

Wes stares. “Of course I do. Why would you ask that?” His sincerity goes through the link, along with his hurt. Wes may not share every aspect of his life like Travis does, but _of course_ he trusts Travis.

Travis’s thoughts flutter with relief, and for the first time he looks right at Wes. “Then I guess we’re okay, right?”

“Right.” Wes shifts on his feet, fingering his car keys. “Then…I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says when it doesn’t look like Travis will say anything else. He turns towards his car.

“Hey, Wes?”

Wes glances over his shoulder.

Travis gives him a brilliantly real smile. “For the record, I trust you too.”

And Wes is hit with such a gust of faith that it sends him staggering into a parked car. Travis’s smile turns mischievous, but the sentiment stays the same, belief and adoration and absolute confidence in his partner. So many things Wes hasn’t felt about himself in a long time. His eyes prickle.

“Stay out of my head tonight, Marks,” Wes says gruffly, refusing to let tears fall, trying not to let his own feelings bleed through too much. It’s getting a little sappy, and he’s not good with this sort of thing.

Travis throws back his head and laughs. “Isn’t that my line, Mitchell?”

Wes heads home feeling lighter than he has in a long time.

\---

Travis is no stranger to being alone. Despite what most of his coworkers seem to think, he doesn’t go out every night and find a girl to be with. He is perfectly capable of sitting home, by himself, watching TV or reading a book. He doesn’t need to be surrounded by people all the time.

Being _lonely_ is a whole other basket of worms. Travis knows what it’s like to be lonely, and _that’s_ when he finds himself hitting the bars or going to one of his many foster siblings’ homes to hang out. Loneliness is bitter and black, a cloud hanging over him, and _that’s_ when he needs to be surrounded by people, because Travis has dealt with loneliness most of his life, and if he’s alone when he’s lonely, he might just fade away into dust.

He thinks he’ll be alright tonight. After all, Wes is there. How can he be lonely if his partner is in his head too? And _because_ his partner is in his head, he doesn’t plan to go out, he won’t go find a girl. He’ll stay in, channel surf until he finds a game or something, and watch TV until he falls asleep.

Travis is wrong. Travis is so very wrong. Loneliness shared by two people doesn’t simply add together. It doubles, and doubles, and doubles again, rising exponentially until the feeling has smothered all the air out of the room and everything looks dark and clouded.

Wes is lonely. He won’t admit it, he pretends he’s not, but right now Wes is sitting in his hotel room, thinking lonely thoughts Travis isn’t supposed to hear, and Travis can _not_ handle it. The emotion swamps over him, suffocating him to the point he’s afraid he’s going to have another panic attack—only from his end this time, not Wes’s.

He manages the first few hours, but then it’s just…it’s too much, too many things crushing down on him at once and it’s like Wes doesn’t even realize he’s lonely _how can he not know?_ and Travis can’t _stand it—!_

_Wes_ , he calls, tentatively poking the Wes-shaped spot in his brain.

There’s a flicker of surprise from Wes’s end, like he didn’t realize they could still talk, after what Dr. Ryan did. (To be fair, Travis didn’t know until he tried it). Then Wes goes _Yeah?_ and it’s like any other conversation they’ve ever had. Except it’s not.

He’s already pulling on his boots as he says, _I’m going out._

There’s a beat. And then, _So?_ muddled with a lot of _So what?_ and _Why should I give a damn?_

Travis rolls his eyes, tugging his jacket over his shoulders. _Wes. I’m going out. As in OUT._ And they’re fluent enough in each other that that would be enough, but right now they’re floating around in each other’s heads so there’s a lot of extra nuance in the thought and Wes can’t _possibly_ misunderstand what Travis is saying here.

It hardly takes a second before Wes says _Oh, you’re going OUT_ , and everything sort of goes a fuzzy pink with flustered embarrassment. _I’ll…try to stay out of your way, then._

_Thanks_ , Travis tosses Wes’s way, grabbing his keys and out the door in a heartbeat.

It occurs to him way too late that he should have just asked Wes if he wanted to hang out. Two lonely people alone is an exponential pit of sadness, but two lonely people together is only a positive.

Honestly, he didn’t think to ask. It’s really not their thing.

\---

Wes has every intention of staying out of Travis mind, much as he can. He’s seen the get-a-girl show more than enough times that he doesn’t need the 3D IMAX experience too.

So he busies himself with a book Kate recommended—some murder mystery that would probably be a lot more interesting if he didn’t actually solve murders everyday—and he does his best to ignore Travis. He knows when Travis gets to the bar, and he knows when Travis starts flirting and drinking, but he _pretends_ he doesn’t, and he definitely doesn’t think about what’s going to happen if/when Travis brings this girl home with him. Because Travis seems to have forgotten that despite what Dr. Ryan did, they’re still very much connected, and Wes really _really_ doesn’t want to be a part of _that._

And it’s working, for the most part. Or he pretends it’s working. Wes is really good at pretending things are fine even when they’re not.

Then there’s a shout, a desperate strangled sort of _don’t leave me!_ It’s not really aimed at Wes, it’s more of a general all-pervasive thought, but…well, Wes _can_ hear it, and he really wouldn’t be doing his duty as a partner if he didn’t check it out, right? Because in all their years together, Wes has never heard Travis sound like that, and what if something is wrong?

(It has nothing to do with the fact that Travis now knows about Wes’s…morning hesitation—not panic attacks because Wes doesn’t have panic attacks he’s totally in control—and now Wes wants to know something just as private about Travis. He is not that petty.)

Rationalization in place, Wes puts down his book, closes his eyes…

…and peeks.

Just a little.

\--- 

Wes slides through the gate in the fence between them. He finds Travis in a bar, flirting with a woman’s back. There’s a charming smile on his face and he’s radiating an easy confidence as he tries to get the woman to stay and talk, but inside he’s a churning mess wanting to be surrounded by people because—

—he’s five and he’s being taken away crying because Jenny’s the best foster mom he’s had and he doesn’t want to go—

—he’s standing on the playground and the other kids are sneering and taunting “no one wants you not even your mom”—

—he’s fifteen and angry as the couple shakes their head and says “he’s too much we just can’t handle him anymore”—

( _mom mom mom why didn’t you want me_ )

—an endless stream of women tabitha kaitlyn jessica maria randi jonelle ellen

( _can’t get too close can’t let them get too close because they’ll leave just like everyone else_ )

—paekman face down in the parking lot with holes in his back—

( _this is how i’ll die alone and no one will care_ )

—standing in front of the captain as he says “you have a choice” and travis makes his because he won’t lose wes, he’s lost everyone else but he can’t lose wes too—

Wes is so surprised to find himself in Travis’s thoughts that he starts, tries to pull away. He’s always been able to see things better at a distance and Travis is no exception.

Travis won’t let him go. Wes honestly can’t tell if it’s subconscious or not, but the flurry of Travis’s desperate thoughts tangle around him and refuse to let him return to himself.

It’s a constant litany of _please don’t leave me_ and _I don’t want to be alone_ and _stay stay stay stay_ and it breaks Wes’s heart.

Since Travis won’t let Wes retreat, he doesn’t.

He reaches out instead.

\---

_I’m not going to leave._

_You know that, right?_

_I’m not going to leave you._

_Travis?_

\---

“Tough luck,” the bartender says as the woman walks away.

Travis leans against the counter and doesn’t let his easy grin fade. “Yeah. But the night’s not over yet. Give me another.” He tosses back the shot of tequila and throws some bills on the counter, rising from the barstool. Striding easily through the crowded dance floor, Travis heads towards the back door.

_Thought you were going to stay out of my head tonight, Wes_ , he teases as he slips outside, leaning against the brick and taking a breath of cool night air. For an alley behind a club, it’s relatively clean and blessedly empty at the moment.

There’s a long, drawn-out silence. After at least a minute, Travis frowns. _Wes? You still there?_

_Where else would I be?_ Wes grumbles, but he sounds distracted. _Did you…how’d it go?_

Travis finds the mid-sentence change interesting, but not enough to ask about it. He chuckles a little. _You saw how it went. That in mind, it probably would have gone better if you hadn’t been talking to me while I was flirting. Puts a bit of a damper on things, you know._

_Yeah…_

Again, Wes sounds distracted. Travis’s frown deepens. He closes his eyes and gives his partner a mental poke. _Hey Wes, you alright?_

_Me?_ Wes sounds a little bit amused and a little bit concerned. _I’m alright. Are you?_

_Why wouldn’t I be?_ Travis laughs. _My ego’s not so fragile I can’t handle a pretty girl walking away from me._

Another long, worried sort of silence to the point that Travis is beginning to get worried as well.

_Wes?_

And then there’s an influx of emotions, loneliness and desperation and heartbreak and despair washing over him. It’s a good thing Travis is already leaning against a wall because his legs have gone wobbly and his throat has gone tight.

It only lasts for a moment, just five or ten seconds, but it’s a drawn-out eternity of all of Travis’s worst fears. (Which really should be a clue.)

Travis is left gasping, slumped against the wall. The brick is solid against his back and Wes is steady in his mind but Travis feels as substantial as candlelight.

“What the hell was _that?_ ” he shouts to the empty alley.

Wes is quiet a few more moments. For all his presence in Travis’s head, Travis can’t read him at all. Damn inscrutable bastard.

_You really don’t know what that was?_ Wes asks.

Travis rolls his eyes. _If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking, would I?_ he snorts, making sure not to say it aloud in case someone comes into the alley.

Wes sighs between his ears. _You, Travis. That was you._

\---

_Me?_ Travis is dubious, but he’s not necessarily surprised. He knows very well there are worms in his sparkling personality. Eighteen foster homes and as many shrinks said as much.

_You’ve got some issues, huh?_ Wes sounds sympathetic, but there’s also a touch of _hah now we’re even_ in there.

That’s okay. Travis understands. He’d feel the same if he were in Wes’s place.

Travis runs his hand over his face and lets out a weary chuckle. _Says the pot to the kettle._

_I don’t have issues, I have quirks_ , Wes says, sounding miffed.

This time the chuckle is more genuine. _Is that what we’re calling it now?_

_That’s absolutely what we’re calling it, now and forever_ , Wes snarks. Travis knows exactly what face Wes is making. Wes sends it his way often enough.

Travis snorts, shaking his head ruefully. _Whatever you say, man_. Wes can be as stubborn as he damn well pleases, but Travis knows the truth—Wes is just as messed-up as Travis is, in his own special way. Wes has _issues_ with a capital “i” and no amount of denial can change that.

Travis’s issues are much more deeply-buried than Wes’s, so he gets to ignore them on a normal day.

_Travis?_

The voice in his head is continually reminding him that today is _not_ a normal day in the slightest.

_Yeah?_

_Are you sure you’re alright?_ Wes asks tentatively, like he’s not really sure the boundaries right now and he’s not certain if he’s allowed to ask such a thing.

Travis chuckles wryly. _‘Course I’m alright. Didn’t you know? I’m always fine_. But he doesn’t push away from the wall, just lingers where he is and takes a few deep breaths. So what if Wes now knows Travis has abandonment issues and a deep-seated need for company the majority of the time? He grew up in foster care, it’s practically textbook. He’s fine. He’s totally, absolutely fine. He’s always fine.

_Travis_ , Wes murmurs, and there’s that hesitation again, like Wes isn’t quite sure if he’s allowed to say whatever he’s about to say. But he pushes on, and Travis can _feel_ Wes pulling himself together, gathering his courage in his hands and letting go.

_Travis,_ Wes says, _I’m not going to leave. You know that, right? I’m not going to leave you. I made my choice too._

And Travis is

—standing in front of the captain hearing him say “split up or therapy make your choice” and travis makes his because he can’t lose—

—wes thinks it’s a stupid idea it’s never going to work but he says yes anyway because he doesn’t want another partner—

Travis’s knees go wobbly again, and he runs his hands over his face. _You are something else, you know that?_ He understands what Wes is trying to do here, he really does, but he can’t help feeling a little violated, and he’s angry at Wes even though none of this is actually Wes’s fault and Wes is only trying to help. These are Travis’s subconscious feelings for a reason, and he totally understands why Wes was so upset when Travis found out about his panic attacks.

Really, sometimes Travis doesn’t know whether he wants to punch his partner or kiss him.

_What?_

And at some point, Travis _will_ learn to censor his thoughts while he’s got a psychic hitchhiker.

\---

Wes sits up in his bed. _You want to kiss me?_

_Why not?_ Travis says, suddenly all elusive charm and engaging smiles. Now Wes can’t read him at all, because that’s how Travis is—his walls are made of flirtatious smarm and deflection. _I’m a pretty good kisser_ , Travis adds.

_That’s not the point_ , Wes denies, their entire shared brainscape flushing pink.

_Oh? Really?_ Travis wheedles smugly, doing what he does. He’s the opposite of Wes. When Travis is pushed, he doesn’t retreat. He pushes back. _You’re telling me you’ve never thought about it?_

_That’s not_ — Unbidden, the thoughts rise to the surface, Travis grabbing his collar and yanking him close, but instead of throttling him or punching him, he pulls Wes in for a rough kiss and—

Wes tries to grab the thought, but it’s too late, snatched away by the winds of Travis’s mind.

_Haha!_ Travis crows. _I knew it! You just can’t resist me, can you?_

_It’s not like I think about you often…_

_You want to know what I’ve thought about you?_

_Travis, this is a bad idea—_

Too late. Travis throws it at him, all the things he’s fantasized about doing with Wes. Pushing him against the wall and licking his way down his neck. Sliding his hands under clothes, over skin, untucking his shirt and rumpling his suit. Kissing all the snarky attitude out of him until he can’t say anything at all. Crawling on top of him until he’s begging.

And Wes—

Wes is blown away.

\---

In the place where sky and water meet, a storm rages. Wind churns the seas, sending waves splashing into the air. It’s a violent storm, merciless and fierce.

They come together in desperate need and suppressed want that goes deeper than either of them ever realized. They match each other one-for-one, giving for every moment they take, pushing and pulling and never going anywhere.

They come together, two forces of nature ravaging the atmosphere. It’s a destructive tempest of emotions, but there is nothing here to destroy except each other.

They come together in images, fantasies bubbling and exploding. They are angry and rough, the softer, gentler dreams buried beneath frothing waves and screaming winds.

They come together, and, without ever physically touching, together they come.

\---

Wes falls into himself with a gasp, panting as though he’d actually had sex rather than just lying on his bed. He runs a trembling hand over his face, feeling shaky and sick, and that’s when he realizes he’s on the cusp of another panic attack. It’s too much at once, he can’t handle it, he really cannot deal with this right now. He staggers to his feet and collapses in the bathroom. _Thanks a fucking lot, Travis_ , he thinks to himself, and then he throws up.

He’s so full of shame that he doesn’t realizes Travis is there too until he hears a cautious, timid, plaintive _Wes?_ between his ears.

Wes takes a breath. _Leave me alone, Travis._

Wes isn’t like Travis. He doesn’t push back when he’s pushed.

He retreats.

_Wes, I’m sorr—_

Wes closes his eyes and dives.

\---

Travis opens his eyes and stares blankly at the alley wall, chest heaving. He’s riding high on pleasure and exhilaration because _damn_ , that had been intense. He hasn’t felt like this about sex since he was a teenager and found out what his body could do.

And then the adrenaline rush fades away and the shame and regret rolls in, and Travis feels sick to his stomach. What the hell did he just do? To _Wes_. They’d just basically had psychic mind-sex, and Wes hadn’t said no but he hadn’t exactly said _yes_ either and it doesn’t really matter that Wes was into it as much as Travis was, Travis is not that kind of person and this is not okay in any sense of the word.

Lowering himself to a nearby crate, Travis adjusts his sticky pants—yet another reason he feels like a teenager; he hasn’t come in his pants since he hit puberty—and drops his head in his hands.

_Wes?_ he prods, gently, cautiously, walking on eggshells because he just went too hard too fast and possibly just ruined the best thing he ever had.

The words come in a rush of shame. _Leave me alone, Travis_. Shame feels like a burning ache in his stomach and tears stinging the backs of his eyes. Shame is like loneliness; it doesn’t simply add when it’s shared between two people, it grows exponentially until it’s overwhelming.

Travis’s foot starts tapping on the ground and he forces himself to stay where he is.

_Wes,_ he says, _I’m sorry_ , because he needs to say it and he needs to say it _now_ , while the wound is still fresh, because if they let it fester and grow then they’ll never recover. If he apologizes now, then there may be a chance they can come back from this.

But Wes isn’t listening. Wes is gone, sinking into himself so far that Travis can’t reach him, even though they’re actually mentally connected right now.

Travis leans back, clunking his head against dirty brick, and he laughs. It’s not a happy sound. It’s bitter and self-deprecating and angry.

“You really fucked this one up, Marks,” he mutters to himself.

If this is the thing that finally makes Wes leave, after all the other shit they’ve been through together, then Travis will only have himself to blame.

\---

Travis doesn’t sleep. He lies in bed and stares at the ceiling, remembering.

He remembers being twelve years old, remembers the girls who got more hollow-eyed the longer they stayed. Remembers getting up in the middle of the night and seeing his foster father in the girls’ room, in the girls’ beds. How he ran to his bed sobbing, swearing he’d never be like that, he’d never hurt anyone that way, and he keeps seeing those girls with their hollow eyes and haunted faces. If he does that to Wes he doesn’t know if he can live with himself.

Wes is so far within himself he only gets the barest flicker of Travis’s thoughts. Enough to influence his dreams, but not enough to wake him.

Wes’s dreams are uneasy and terrifying in their own way. He dreams of holding his world in his hands and watching it crumble away again, and all that’s left is an empty painful _nothing_ as Travis walks away. It’s not an easy sleep, and he wakes at four and doesn’t go back to bed.

\---

Neither of them starts the morning well-rested.

\---

The bond is still going strong the next morning. Travis is halfway through the lobby when his throat closes up. Ah, Wes is at work then.

_Deep breaths, buddy_ , Travis thinks encouragingly, staggering to the front desk and trying not to puke. He waves off the worry of passing officers and reaches for the hand sanitizer, spritzing a liberal dose into his palm. Most passer-bys leave. A few hang around, watching in case he collapses or something. Travis pretends not to notice them, focusing inward. 

Some of the tightness in his chest eases as he rubs the Purell into his skin. Not all of it, but enough that Travis stops feeling like he got kicked in the gut. It eases even more as Wes goes into RHD and does the Purell ritual himself, which Travis can understand. Secondhand calm can only go so far.

_Feeling better, man?_ Travis asks with genuine concern, because he _cares_ , dammit, he cares more about Wes than he’d like to admit, and he knows how devastating panic attacks can be.

The rejection on Wes’s end is so sharp Travis actually flinches. _Still mad, then, I see._

This time the stab of rejection is tinged with _Gee, ya think, dumbass?_ and a healthy dose of _Fuck you and fuck off._

So. Bond. Still strong and steady.

Wes just isn’t talking to him, is all.

\---

“I brought you coffee.” Travis puts the cup on the corner of Wes’s desk and hovers anxiously. Wes doesn’t even look up.

“I got your favorite,” Travis continues, undeterred. “The hazelnut one.”

Wes flicks him a sidelong glance that’s colder than the arctic and doesn’t say anything.

Travis hates it when Wes does this, shutting down his face and letting nothing through. As if by not showing emotion, he won’t feel it.

Wes had done this before, too, standing in front of the captain as he’d given them their choice, and Travis had felt just like this, sick to his stomach with nervous dread because he couldn’t read Wes, didn’t know what Wes would do or say.

It’s not any better now that Travis can read Wes’s mind, because the cold is more than surface deep and Travis is getting _nothing_.

He shuffles on his feet. “Can we…talk? About what happened?” His eyes dart to their coworkers, none of whom are obviously eavesdropping but who are no doubt listening anyway. “Somewhere else?”

Wes turns and glares at him. Despite the ice in Wes’s eyes and the chill aimed his way in his head, Travis counts it as a minor win. _Major_ win, he corrects, as Wes wraps his fingers around the coffee cup.

When Wes rises, Travis makes a move to follow. A glower from Wes stops that dead in its tracks. Not taking his eyes off Travis, Wes stalks over to the trashcan and drops the peace offering inside.

Travis doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry or hit something.

“Trouble in paradise?” Kate queries from her desk, watching Wes storm into the break room.

“Maybe Wes got fed up with Travis’s dirty mind,” Amy quips.

That’s too close to the truth, and Travis feels sick. Humiliated and angry with himself and ashamed. He definitely wants to punch something.

He mutters, “Shut up,” without any heat and slumps in his chair.

\---

Wes is still frigid when he comes back. That’s cool. Travis can take a hint. He stays quiet and works on his paperwork and keeps his mind open and inviting and apologetic just in case Wes decides to take a peek and see what’s what. They need a little time for Wes to be angry and then they’ll work it out just like everything else. It’s fine, everything is _fine_.

Until Dr. Ryan walks in and Travis knows he’s screwed.

“Travis, come with me, please,” she says, leading him to an empty conference room. The door is hardly closed before she turns on him, mouth tight with disapproval. “What happened, Travis?”

Travis shoves his hands in his pockets and tries not to look too defensive. “Nothing happened,” he says, going for nonchalance and missing the mark completely.

“Really.” Dr. Ryan raises one _I know you’re lying through your teeth_ eyebrow. “Yesterday you two were confident in your combined abilities to get past this. Today…well, I’ve seen couples in the midst of nasty divorces more congenial than the two of you today.”

“Yeah…well…why are you singling me out?” Travis growls, hunching his shoulders. “Maybe it wasn’t my fault.”

“I’m not saying it is your fault. I’m not saying it’s not.” Dr. Ryan sits in a chair, folding her hands on her lap. “It is not my job to assign blame, which would be tricky enough with you two. You’re both so very proficient at provoking one another.”

“But you still called _me_ in here, not Wes,” Travis points out.

Dr. Ryan takes a breath, seemingly organizing her words. “I know something happened last night because I came in and you both looked ashamed. But I called you in here because unlike Wes, you also looked guilty.”

Travis lets out a breath.

\---

Travis trusts Dr. Ryan. That’s not something he says a lot about shrinks. He and psychiatry have not always seen eye-to-eye in the past. But Dr. Ryan is different, and Travis trusts her more than any other shrink he’s ever had.

Maybe it’s because she’s not trying to solve Travis like a puzzle. She’s not trying to crawl inside his head, asking him a bunch of questions to figure out how he’s coping at his new home and how he’s adjusting and why he hasn’t shattered to pieces yet.

Dr. Ryan is there to discover the problems between Travis and Wes and fix them as best she can. Still intrusive, but in an entirely different way than previous shrinks. And she _has_ helped them make progress, so much so they went back to group even when they didn’t have to.

But it’s one thing to trust her to solve their domestic problems and another thing entirely to tell her about their unexpected sex life which may not even be a sex life, considering the circumstances (i.e. the part where it happened all in their heads).

Travis really doesn’t want to tell her, but he really _really_ wants her to fix this, because he fucked up _bad_.

“Travis,” the doctor says gently, “I am not here to judge. My role is to facilitate communication between you and your partner for a more fulfilling relationship. That is all.”

“We already have enough communication, don’t you think?” Travis scoffs, tapping the side of his head.

Dr. Ryan ignores his deflection, leans forward. “Travis. I am your doctor. Whatever you say right now will be held in confidence. I am here to help you.”

And Travis does want help. He does. He doesn’t know how to solve this one on his own.

He takes a breath, gathers his nerve. No one will ever say Travis Marks is a coward.

“Okay.” Travis runs his hands through his hair, paces in front of her chair. “Okay. You’re right. Something happened last night. I…let’s say that I…crossed some boundaries I really shouldn’t have. I’m not—I won’t say any more than that, not until I talk to Wes,” he adds, forestalling the next obvious question.

Dr. Ryan presses her lips together and slowly nods, accepting his answer.

“And now Wes is beyond pissed and I don’t know how to fix it and I think this might be it for real,” Travis concludes, collapsing into a chair like all the air has drained out of him.

“I assume you tried apologizing?” Dr. Ryan asks after a moment.

“First thing I did,” because Travis may not apologize for the little things but he is an adult and he can damn well take responsibility for the problems he causes, when they’re big enough. Dings in the door? That’s just funny to mess with Wes. This? This is big. This needs an apology written on a billboard.

“And again this morning,” he adds, “Or I tried to, at least. He’s not listening.”

The smallest smile quirks Dr. Ryan’s lips. “You sound as though you’re hoping for a miracle.”

“With Wes? A miracle might be just what I need.”

That earns him a full-blown chuckle. “Indeed.” Abruptly, the mirth slides away and she stares at him. “Unfortunately, and I think you know what I’m about to say, there are no miracles for this.”

Yeah. Yeah, Travis knew that. But still…

He leans forward, resting his forehead on his clasped fists. “What do I do, Doc?” he asks in supplication.

She sighs. “You apologize, Travis. You tell him how sorry you are. You _show_ him how sorry you are. And you ask for forgiveness.”

Travis looks up. “And if he doesn’t give it?”

She smiles sadly. “There are consequences for every action. There comes a point where you must live with the consequences of your actions. And if the result of this action is that Wes refuses to forgive you and leaves, then you will have to take responsibility. I will help as much as I can, but there’s only so much I can do. Sometimes, Travis, there’s nothing anyone else can do at all.”

\---

Travis understands what she’s saying. He does. He’s not stupid; he’s been living with the consequences of his own actions for years now.

And yes, he’s been thinking that he could lose Wes from this, but that’s just in his head.

Hearing someone else say it? That makes it _tangible_. That _solidifies_ it.

Travis could lose Wes. For real. He could honestly lose Wes.

_That_ is unacceptable.

\---

“I’m sorry,” Travis blurts out as soon as he’s returned from talking to Dr. Ryan. A conversation Wes didn’t eavesdrop on at all, because he’s beyond mad at Travis and also _he doesn’t care_.

Wes fiddles with the coffeemaker and ignores his partner.

That doesn’t stop Travis. He grabs Wes’s arm. “Wes, _I’m sorry_. Okay? I’m sorry, it was stupid, _I_ was stupid, and it will never happen again. So can we _please_ talk?”

There’s a constant, restless hum of energy from Travis’s side of the bond, but Wes is so upset it’s easy to tune it out. He doesn’t have to listen if he doesn’t want to, and _oh_ , he doesn’t want to. He shrugs Travis’s hand off and presses the button to start brewing.

“ _Wes_.” Travis huffs in frustration, pacing a few steps away. But he paces right back and grabs Wes’s arm again.

“Wes. We _will_ talk about this. So we can talk about it right here, right now, or we can go somewhere private and keep it just between us. Which would you rather have?”

Wes has no intention of giving into Travis, but he glances over at Kate and Officer Ridley who are chatting and look like they’re not eavesdropping at all. (They are. They don’t look it, but Wes knows.)

He wants to keep giving Travis the cold shoulder. But Travis is using his _I’m not going to take no for an answer_ voice, and Wes knows that if he doesn’t go somewhere else, Travis _will_ talk about it, right here in the break room for everyone to hear. Which will no doubt lead to another fight because at that point Wes will have most likely punched him in the face.

“Fine,” Wes grits out, feeling a rush of exultation from Travis. Idiot. One word doesn’t mean he’s giving in. He’s just assessed his options and taken the lesser evil, that’s all.

He drags Travis to the conference room Dr. Ryan just vacated, shutting the door and snapping the blinds closed. “What do you want?” he demands, crossing his arms and scowling.

Travis takes a breath, holds out his hands. “Wes. I’m sorry.”

“You already said that.”

“And I’ll say it again and again, however many times you need me to. I’m _sorry_.” Travis paces, restless energy and sudden anxiety thrumming inside of him. It makes Wes twitchy. He doesn’t like it.

“I went too far,” Travis is saying, “I crossed a line and we can’t go back, but it won’t happen again, I _swear_ it won’t. Not like that.”

“Not like that,” Wes repeats flatly. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“You know.” Travis waves a hand. “I mean, if we’re going to do that again, it’s going to be better. More…respectful. Not in our heads.”

“What makes you think we’re going to do that again?”

Travis chuckles. “Come on, Wes, you were just as into it as I was. Don’t pretend you weren’t.”

That is true. Wes _was_ into it, despite how it started. He won’t lie and say he hasn’t thought about it, because he has. And what happened last night…he _did_ enjoy it.

But just because he feels something in the (semi-)privacy of his own head doesn’t mean he’ll allow it to happen again.

“It’s _not_ going to happen again, Travis,” Wes says, crossing his arms. He’s going to be firm on this. What happened last night _will not_ be repeated, inside _or_ outside their minds.

Travis pauses, like that never occurred to him. “Why not?”

Wes shoots him a dirty glare. _Seriously?_ he thinks. Out loud, he says, “Because there are _rules_ , Travis. I’m not sleeping with you. Never again.”

“Rules? You’re worried about _rules_? Wes, we break the rules all the time, and we still rock. Why is this any different? You enjoyed it, I enjoyed it, and if we do it right we’ll make it work.”

“It’s not a question of whether I enjoyed it or not,” Wes snaps, because how can Travis not see this. “You took advantage. You pushed when you shouldn’t have and you took advantage of the situation. It won’t happen again because it shouldn’t have happened in the _first_ place.”

Travis’s smile turns a little sickly around the edge. “You didn’t say no.”

And the therapy group says Wes is the only one in denial.

He tightens his jaw and stares Travis down. “That’s not consent and you know it.”

It’s like getting sucker-punched. They both recoil, and all the air in the room seems to go thin. Travis’s mind is a panicked litany of _I’m not like that, I’m not, oh god what if I am_ and it’s ceaseless, battering against Wes’s mental walls and he’s—

Wes flinches and presses his hands against his eyes like that will block Travis out. ( _if I can’t see you you aren’t there_ ) He throws up every defense he can come up with and he draws back before he can get sucked into Travis’s memories. Travis is a lot more fucked up than he lets on, and it’s not a fun trip.

_Travis, STOP. You need to calm down_. There’s a little voice in Wes’s head that sounds a lot like Dr. Ryan. It’s extremely annoying and Wes tries to ignore it most of the time, but he pulls it up and tosses it at Travis’s way. Dr. Ryan always is good at getting them to calm down. _Just breathe and calm down._

Travis does. Not easily, not quickly, but he pulls back and takes a couple deep breaths, and some of the gales blowing between them ease.

If Wes looks, he can picture what Travis looks like—he’s seen Travis pulling himself together too many times to count. He’ll have gritted teeth and clenched fists and it will seem like he’s just seconds away from snapping completely. 

Wes doesn’t bother to look. He can feel it all; he doesn’t need to watch for the moment Travis is okay again.

It’s a good minute before Travis lets out a long, slow breath. “I’m not like that, Wes,” he says softly, and Wes isn’t sure if Travis is trying to convince himself or if he’s looking for validation.

Slowly, Wes lowers his hands. Travis appears fine, standing casually with his hands in his pockets, but Wes is learning all too well how deceiving Travis can be. His mind is still a turmoiled mess, and Wes has a feeling the storm could start right up again in an instant.

“I don’t think you’re like that,” Wes says carefully. “I think you’re a lot of things, but you’re not a rapist.”

Travis relaxes marginally, and Wes stops feeling like he’s been punched in the gut.

Wes has to force himself not to cross his arms. Any textbook would say that’s a defensive position, and Wes isn’t defensive. _Travis_ is the one in the wrong here.

Instead, he runs his hands over his face and takes a fortifying breath. “The lines are blurred right now, Travis. We need to be careful.” He sighs, feeling tired all of a sudden. “Just…ask next time.”

In hindsight, he really shouldn’t have been surprised by the leer that instantly pops up on Travis’s face.

“So there _will_ be a next time.”

“Oh my god.” Wes throws his hands in the air. “I’m done. It’s impossible to have a serious conversation with you.”

The panicked gales come back full force as Wes turns to leave. It’s almost physical, tendrils of thought and need wrapping around him like rope and locking him in place, and who knew Travis could be so damn _strong_.

“I’m sorry,” Travis is babbling, “I’m sorry, it’ll never happen again, I swear, Wes, I’m _sorry_.”

And Wes really, really hates that he can pinpoint the exact cause of Travis’s distress, because they both know it’s more than Travis ever intended to share.

Wes glares at his partner. “I’m done _with this conversation_ , dumbass. I can’t even begin to decide what to do about our partnership until _after_ this wears off.”

“Oh.” The force pinning him in place lessens but doesn’t abate entirely. “Okay.”

Wes waits. Travis shuffles his feet and looks at the floor. 

“Travis?”

“Yeah?”

“Let me _go_.”

Travis looks startled, like he didn’t realize he was holding Wes in place—but no, he probably didn’t, he didn’t even recognize his own subconscious feelings last night.

But the invisible strands fall away and Wes can move again, so he doesn’t push.

“Wes?” It’s soft and hesitant, a tone Wes has never heard before, and he’s almost certain he never _would_ have heard it if it weren’t for how close they’ve become in the past twenty-four hours. What’s the point of hiding from someone who’s in your head?

Travis scuffs his boot and doesn’t quite look at his face. “I mean it. I’m sorry. So please…don’t shut me out.”

It’s easy to read between the lines when it’s all being sent his way.

“Fine. But it doesn’t happen again. You don’t take anything I don’t give.”

“I swear.” Travis holds up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

Another time, Wes might not believe it. He might stay mad for a few more hours until he felt Travis had been punished enough.

Right now, he can tell just how sincere Travis is, and he knows just how badly Travis needs this.

So he does the only thing he can.

He rolls his eyes and thinks, _Like you were ever a scout._

The thought gets snatched up and whisked away by Travis’s turbulent mind, as it was meant to. Travis’s face lightens considerably and, seeing the peace offering for what it is, Travis grins.

_Was to_ , he replies, shooting back an image of a gangly pre-teen version of himself in a scout’s uniform. _It was only for like three months but it counts._

_I don’t think it does…_

\---

They walk out of the conference room in sync, making faces to a conversation no one else can hear. The ice thaws, the wind settles, and things are almost back to normal.

Except, of course, they aren’t.

\---

Dr. Ryan pulls Wes aside before she leaves. “Did you two work everything out?” she asks in that tone that says this is not really a question he’s allowed to avoid.

Wes glances at their desks where Travis appears to be busy on paperwork but Wes knows he’s actually doodling lousy pictures of their coworkers.

“We’ll be alright,” he evades. The last thing he wants to do is talk about last night and the fallout with Dr. Ryan. He and Travis have enough they’re going to need to work out without third party intervention right now.

“On another note,” he adds, “I figured out how to block Travis out. I just have to be really pissed at him.”

“Oh?” She glances between the two of them a few times, doing that thing Wes hates where she looks right through all the crap and sees what’s underneath.

“Do you know what I saw when I walked in?” she asks, which is her way of saying, _I see your bullshit and call you on it in the most roundabout way possible_. Without waiting for Wes to hazard a guess, she answers her own question. “I saw shame.”

Well, this isn’t going to go well.

“It’s interesting, isn’t it?” she asks in her _I know everything because I’m the god of therapy_ voice. “Shame can turn into anger in just one step. But shame is an emotion aimed inward, not outward.”

She gives Wes a searching look. “I have to wonder. Are you angry at Travis…or at yourself?”

Wes’s smile goes stiff.

\---

There’s no denying it. They’re both ashamed of what happened.

Travis is ashamed of the way it happened. He went too far and he knows it, and it doesn’t matter if Wes says it’s fine, everything could still fall apart because he pushed when he shouldn’t

Wes is ashamed it happened at all. It doesn’t matter that it wasn’t physical, that it was only in their heads. It _did_ happen, they both know it, and they can’t go back to the way things were.

Once this mind-bond wears off, they’ll still have the memory, and then everything will change.

They’ve both lived through enough change to know it’s rarely a good thing.

\---

“Winnebago,” Wes says an hour and a half after Dr. Ryan leaves. They should be doing paperwork. Travis does not in any way want to do paperwork. This means that Wes has very little capacity to do anything productive at all.

Travis throws his pencil on top of the empty hangman’s noose. “How do you keep winning?”

_How do you think, dumbass?_ Wes rolls his eyes.

Travis huffs, falling back in his chair. “Well, if we can’t play hangman, then tic-tac-toe and poker are out. God, there’s nothing to _do_.”

“You could do your paperwork,” Wes offers.

“Psh,” Travis scoffs, waving his hand dismissively.

Wes throws a pen at his head.

Travis grabs a highlighter and launches his counterattack. 

The fight only lasts two minutes before Sutton pops his head out of his office. “Really?”

“Travis started it,” Wes accuses because that’s his default state, blaming Travis.

“I did not,” Travis complains, grabbing another highlighter.

Sutton’s glare turns sharp. “I will call Dr. Ryan back here, so help me god.”

They both settle.

“Good.” Sutton retreats back into his office, but he points to his eyes, then at Wes and Travis in the classic ‘I’m watching you’ gesture.

Travis slumps back in his seat. “Oh my god, there’s nothing to _do_.”

Wes drops his head in his hands and sighs.

\---

Everything should be fine between them. Travis said his apologies, Wes accepted them, and they’ve agreed to stay on their respective sides of the mental fence. Things should go back to normal.

And on the surface, it does. They’re fine. Anyone looking on in them wouldn’t have a clue.

But it’s not normal. Not even close. Wes is no longer shutting Travis out, but he’s still hesitant and holding back, like he expects Travis to mentally jump him at any second. Or maybe it’s something else, something Travis can’t get a read on because Wes is _so damn good_ at that, holding everything in so no one can tell what he’s thinking.

And Travis is hesitant, afraid to push for anything because what if it makes Wes shut him out again? What if Wes retreats inside himself and this time no number of apologies will bring him back out? Travis hates it when Wes does that and they _aren’t_ mentally connected, let alone when they _are_ , and if Wes goes deep Travis won’t be able to handle it, he really won’t. Not again.

So they’re both stepping lightly, tiptoeing on eggshells because one wrong step will send everything shattering, and it’s not the sort of situation that can be kept up for long. Something is going to break and then it will all fall down.

It’s almost a relief when Sutton pokes his head out his door and says, “Head upstairs, Kendall found something.”

It gives them something else to think about.

\---

“These statues are Platonic.”

Wes glowers at Travis and says, “Seriously?” just seconds before Travis sniggers and goes, “So they’re just friends, then?”

Kendall stares at them, eyebrows raised. “That’s going to take some getting used to.”

Both sets of eyes snap to her. “Getting used to?” Wes echoes.

“Please tell me it’s not permanent,” Travis pleads, all joking gone now.

“It’s not permanent.” Kendall swivels her chair to face her computer. “I think.”

“You _think_?” they chorus as one.

“Let me explain.” She pulls an internet window up, points to the picture on the screen. “Here are your two statuettes that you guys found at the victims’ home. They are Platonic, as in, from the era of and pertaining to Plato, the philosopher.”

More typing. Another window pops up. “In Plato’s _Symposium_ , there’s a story that says humans originally had four arms, four legs, and two faces. The gods, afraid of the power wielded by these beings, split them in two halves, creating humans we know today. That’s where the idea of soul mates comes from, as in, ‘one soul in two bodies’.”

She flicks the screen back to the photo of the statuettes, tapping the screen. “Far as I can tell, these guys are made with this story in mind. Way back when, they were given to newly married couples on their wedding day. Legend says that a bond would be created between the two, and they would truly know the other ‘as one soul in two bodies’.” Digital models of the statuettes come together, sliding into place to form one figure. “They were good luck. A marriage these were used at supposedly lasted until death and beyond.”

_Nice job, Wes. You went and got us psychically hitched._

“Me?” Wes glares at his partner. “You’re the one who picked up the second statue.”

_It was part of the crime scene!_

_Yeah, well, yours wasn’t covered in blood, so you really didn’t need to be touching it, did you?_

“How was I supposed to know what would happen?” Travis growls, slumping in his seat.

Kendall watches them in fascination. “Do you guys know you only had, like, half of that conversation aloud?”

They exchange a glance. “How do we stop this?” Travis asks plaintively, and he tries not to sound too much like he’s begging.

“…I think it’ll wear off in a few days.”

“You think,” Wes says flatly. It’s not a question. It’s a tone of sheer disbelief.

“A week at most.”

“A _week_?!” they chorus in horror.

Kendall gives them both an exasperated look. “Guys. I’m doing what I can. But I’m looking at scanned translations of badly preserved documents that had to be translated from Ancient Greek to Modern Greek to English. As amazing as I am, there’s only so much I can accomplish.”

Travis leans forward. “Come on, Kendall, there has to be _some_ way to get this solved quicker than that.”

“We’re going to kill each other if we’re linked that long,” Wes says, and he’s so deadpan it’s hard to tell if he’s serious or not.

Kendall looks at them both and bites her lip. “I mean, I did find _something_ , but you guys probably won’t like it…”

“What?” They both lean forward, bodies synchronized in the same way.

She sighs and looks mildly uncomfortable. “Well, these statues were intended for married couples, right? So what’s generally the first thing a married couple would do after their wedding…?”

They are both very smart men. It only takes a second for the implications to sink in.

Wes’s face goes slack with horror. Travis’s face goes completely empty.

“There has to be another way,” Wes begs Kendall imploringly. “ _Anything_.”

“Sorry,” Kendall shrugs. “I mean, I’ve scoured the internet—there’s not much on these little guys. They’re pretty rare. You either sex it up or you stick it out.”

Wes closes his eyes and takes a few deeps breaths. Travis gives Kendall an insincere smile and thanks her.

They don’t look at each other on the way out.

\---

They’re both silent as they leave Kendall’s office. It’s not in the slightest bit comfortable—it’s tense and awkward and stings as it passes between them. Travis doesn’t look at Wes; Wes pretends to be engrossed in his phone.

They both _want_.

Wes has wanted since before his marriage ended, when he realized just how good they were together. When he saw that his future with Alex was ending but he could envision a future with Travis all too easily. He’s listened to the stories for years, all of Travis’s conquests and girlfriends that don’t last, and he’s wondered why it couldn’t be him. But Wes is above all else a realist, and the reality is that if he wants too much, what they have will fall apart. Wes has seen enough to know what happens when Travis’s relationships fall apart—and to know that Travis’s relationships _always_ fall apart. It’s better to never have Travis at all than to have him and lose him.

Travis has wanted since that first glimpse in the shooting range. It was purely physical then, an urge to strip that suit off and watch the tightly-controlled blonde fall apart. And then the urge changed as their relationship changed, mutating and coalescing into something solid…something permanent. For the first time he could imagine forever, and the want became an ache, one that didn’t go away no matter how many women he fell into. He’d learned early on that if he got what he wanted, it wouldn’t last. So he wanted, and he ached, but every time he longed to touch, he went and found someone else, because he knows that if he wants his relationship with Wes to last, he’s allowed to look but he can’t touch.

They both want, and if Kendall had told them this twenty-four hours ago, they could have used it as an excuse. But what happened last night has tainted the air between them, and any desire is buried in the silence.

Neither of them speak until they get to their desks. Then Travis says, without looking in Wes’s direction at all, “ ‘S gonna be a long week, huh?”

It’s an offering. A carefully thought-out way to pretend what Kendall said was never spoken.

Wes hunches his shoulders and grabs a file. “Looks like,” he mumbles, and withdraws without moving an inch.

They both stay on their sides of the fence and very deliberately don’t think about each other.

\---

Things stay tense until after lunch. Wes is finishing up a report on a double suicide they investigated a few weeks back, when all of a sudden Travis sits up and goes, “No…you don’t think?”

Wes taps his lips with his pen. “It seems like.”

They both leap to their feet, shuffling through papers and tossing half-finished sentences between themselves.

“Is it possible—?”

“From what we’ve seen—”

“Seriously, though?”

Thoughts fly between them faster than they can verbalize, a tumble of half-formed ideas and images coalescing into a fully-formed theory in the space between their minds. They grin at each other, and when Travis holds out his hand for a high five, Wes actually responds in kind.

“Oh, we got this, baby,” Travis smirks. Wes sends him a smile back.

They walk as one to Kate and Amy’s desk. When the women look up, they beam and in unison say, “We know what happened to the Keeners.”

\---

They’re pacing in front of the board when the captain walks in, winding in and around each other without looking, an innate awareness of where the other one is. Travis’s hands are moving the way he does when he’s excited, and Wes’s face shifts in myriad emotions as he responds, but neither of them say a word.

Sutton settles into a seat, nodding to Kate and Amy. “Alright, boys,” he says, and it’s almost eerie how they turn to him with identical expressions of intent. _Almost_ , because they do that even when they _aren’t_ mentally connected.

Sutton holds out his hands. “What have you got?”

“Double suicide,” the two men say in unison. Kate and Amy share a look.

“How’d you come up with that?” Kate asks.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Wes holds out his hands. “They had the statuettes. Maybe one of them—let’s say Lindsey—Lindsey went to a—”

“—flea market,” Travis picks up mid-sentence. Kate and Amy share another look, the turn to Sutton. Neither Travis nor Wes notice the exchange—or if they do, they ignore it.

“Or a garage sale or bazaar or _whatever_ ,” Travis continues undaunted. “And then she brings the statues home and Jeremy picks one up and _bam_ , mental marriage.” He smacks his hands together.

Wes mimicks the motion, albeit on a smaller scale. “They don’t know what to do, but they try to weather it. Obviously they don’t know how to break the spell. Most people wouldn’t think to have sex in this situation.” A pause. Then Wes rolls his eyes. “I said _most_ people, Travis. You, of course, are the one-in-a-million exception to the rule.”

The looks Kate and Amy are passing between themselves are increasing in urgency. The two men still don’t pay attention.

“So they’re going along, trying to make it work—” Travis starts.

“—but they can’t, people aren’t supposed to be connected like this for so long,” Wes continues.

“—so there comes a point where they just can’t take anymore and they snap.”

Wes makes a breaking motion with his hands. Travis makes the accompanying sound effect.

“Jeremy Keener grabs the gun from his office.” Travis makes a gun shape with his fingers.

“Lindsey Keener grabs the knife from the kitchen.” Wes snatches a pen from the table.

Travis sticks the finger gun in his mouth and pretends to pull the trigger; Wes fake-stabs the pen into his chest. “And they kill themselves,” the finish together.

Sutton leans back and doesn’t let anything show on his face. “You think that’s what happened?”

Wes shrugs, placing the pen back on the table. Travis pulls his fingers out of his mouth and wipes his hand on his pants. They don’t look at each other, but there’s a sense that they’re communicating, thoughts flying between them.

“It makes the most sense,” Wes offers. “Actually, knowing what we know about the statues, it’s the _only_ thing that makes sense.”

The captain looks at the two female detectives. “What do you two think?”

Amy shrugs. “Based on our preliminary results, it does look like suicide is the COD for both victims. GSR was found on Jeremy’s hand, and Lindsey’s prints were the only ones on the knife.”

“Can’t say how much I believe the rest of it, but it looks like they may be right,” Kate adds, a little sulkily.

Wes and Travis share a not-so-subtle high five.

\---

(They’ve always been at their best when they’re working.

It’s when they’re not working that everything falls apart.)

\---

“Alright.” Sutton rubs the bridge of his nose. “Kate, Amy, wait for the autopsy to confirm, but then I think we can close this one up. Wes, Travis, my office.”

Elation morphs into bafflement as they turn to each other. Wes’s lips twist into a scowl. Travis rolls his eyes and leads the way out of the room.

When they’re out of the conference room, Amy looks out the window at the two men. “Sir, did you see…?”

“I did,” Sutton interrupts with a sigh. “I’ll take care of it.”

A worried look passes between the two women. Then Kate says, “Good luck.”

\---

_This is your fault_ , Wes grumbles, settling into a chair in the captain’s office.

“My fault?” Travis plops in the next chair, crossing his arms with a scowl. _How is this my fault?_

“Quantitatively, it’s _always_ your fault,” Wes snaps.

Travis bristles. “It’s our case, I was helping to solve our case. That’s our _job_.”

_It was Kate and Amy’s case_ , Wes retorts. “It was given to them because _someone_ decided to pick up the statue on the mantle. Or did you forget about that?”

_How was I supposed to know?!_ Travis wails.

Wes picks up the stress ball and imagines he’s squishing Travis’s big fat stupid head.

“Oh, very nice, Wes, real mature,” Travis snaps sarcastically. A moment later, the captain walks in and Travis points to Wes. “It was Wes’s idea to tell you our theory, not mine.”

_Who’s being mature now?_ Wes growls.

Travis doesn’t even look a little abashed.

“Kate and Amy were already leaning towards double suicide,” Sutton reminds them as he sits. “Your theory just gives the idea more credence.”

Travis looks at Wes. Wes looks at Travis.

Wearing identical expressions of confusion, they look at the captain.

“Then why are we here?” Wes asks.

Travis taps his thigh, leg going up and down like a piston. He has a feeling he’s not going to like whatever the captain is going to say, and the anticipation feels like cold snakes in Wes’s belly. He squeezes the stress ball harder.

Sutton smiles gently and folds his hands on his desk. “Please turn in your weapons, boys.”

\---

Travis goes still. Wes grips the stress ball so tight it looks about to burst.

“It’s merely a precaution,” Sutton continues. “Just until this whole thing is cleared up.”

“This isn’t necessary,” Wes protests.

“We’re fine,” Travis adds. “One hundred percent.”

“Of course you are,” Sutton says in a very _I don’t believe a word you’re saying because you two are never one hundred percent_ voice. “But better safe than sorry. You yourself said people aren’t supposed to be connected like this.”

_That one? That’s your fault_ , Travis grumbles.

“I don’t know why I didn’t think of this yesterday,” Sutton adds, and Wes shoots Travis a glower. _Not my fault, it would have happened either way._

“Your other option,” the captain offers, “is to be put under armed guard until this wears off.” He frowns thoughtfully. “Truth be told, I’m kind of leaning that direction anyway.”

“Are you serious?” Wes asks flatly.

Sutton smiles genially. “Absolutely.”

“You do realize,” Wes tells Sutton, “if we really wanted to kill ourselves, or each other, we could do it without our guns.”

“You do realize,” Sutton responds dryly, “that putting you under armed guard is sounding like an increasingly good idea.”

“You don’t have to do that.” Travis puts a placating hand on Wes’s arm. Wes shifts subtly, jaw tightening, but doesn’t say anything more. “We’ll be good,” he promises. “First sign of suicidal or homicidal or any other –cidal feeling, we’ll call.”

Sutton looks expectantly at Wes. Travis has to nudge him with an elbow before he snaps out of his sulk.

“Right. We’ll call. Promise.”

Sutton sighs. “Of course you will. But I’m sure you’ll understand if I have a car drive by a few times during the night.”

Wes opens his mouth.

_God, Wes, shut up. Do you really want to have an armed escort watching your every move for the next six days?_

Wes shuts his mouth and grimaces. “That’s fine.”

“Good.” Sutton nods. “And, since your case is basically closed, you don’t have to come in tomorrow.” He holds up a hand before they can start protesting. “You’re useless to me right now, boys. Take tomorrow off. Figure this out. Come in when you two _aren’t_ psychically connected. Alright?”

Travis nods. Wes just grits his teeth and asks, “Can we go now?”

Another long-suffering sigh. “Yes you can.”

Wes jumps out of his chair and practically bolts for the door. Travis follows with less haste but no less eagerly.

Sutton clears his throat. “Boys?”

They pause. Sutton gestures to his desk. “Your guns.”

Wes can’t help scowling at his partner as he unhooks his holster. _There is no universe where this isn’t your fault._

The easy smile never slips from Travis’s face as he sets his weapon beside Wes’s. _Next time you say that, I’m gonna punch you._

_You wouldn’t dare._

_Watch me._

They walk out, silently bickering with each other, and hear the captain sigh as the door shuts behind them.

\---

By unspoken agreement, they go to a little hole-in-the-wall diner. They don’t do a lot of talking, verbal or otherwise, and even the waitress seems a little uncomfortable with the awkward air lingering between them.

Once the waitress leaves with their orders, Wes taps his fingers on the table, a steady cadence _one-two-three-four_. Travis fidgets with the sugar and sugar-substitute packets, turning them so they’re all facing the same way.

“So,” Travis says to fill the silence. His fingers fuss with the sugar packets, aligning the corners.

Then he realizes how much of a _Wes_ thing that is to do and he shoves the sugar rack away.

“So we could just do it,” he offers, propping his chin on his hand. His other hand taps on the table, matching Wes’s pace. He glares at both their fingers, but he doesn’t stop and Wes doesn’t seem to notice because his entire mind has shied away at Travis’s suggestion.

“That’s not a good idea, Travis,” Wes says, staring at the ketchup. His fingers tap faster; Travis flattens his hand against the table to keep from speeding up as well.

“I don’t know, man, I bet we could make it pretty awesome.” He slants a crooked grin at his partner. _Besides, do you really want to be stuck like this for six more days?_

_Do you really want to be that exposed to someone who can read your mind?_ Wes shoots back, narrowing his eyes at him.

“…point. You have a point.” Because he remembers what happened last night, remembers how right at the peak moment everything sort of blurred together all the walls faded away. And that was just in their head.

Imagine it happening when in the heat of the moment, when they’re actually, physically going at it. All the walls would come tumbling down and everything would flow through.

They’ve already shared enough, and that’s mostly just surface stuff. He doesn’t want to go any deeper than that.

“Exactly,” Wes says, picking up the dessert menu. He stares at the laminated pages without taking anything in. “It’s a bad idea all around, so we’re not going to do it.”

They sit for a few more minutes.

“Only,” Travis says, “only I don’t think we’ll make it six days.”

“I think it’s only five days at this point,” Wes says, eyeing the meager drinks menu with much more interest than the desserts. They both know it’s a bad idea, alcohol and mind-melding can’t possible mesh well, but the temptation is strong.

“Fine. I don’t think we’ll make it _five_ days,” Travis snaps, leg jiggling under the table.

“We’ll make it.” Wes is using his reassuring voice but his mind is swirling with doubt.

“We might make it, but I don’t know if _we’ll_ make it,” Travis rejoins. He has no doubt they’ll both _survive_ this, unlike Lindsey and Jeremy Keener, but he doesn’t know if _they’ll_ make it. And after everything they’ve been through, he doesn’t want _this_ to be the thing that breaks them.

“We’ll be fine,” Wes repeats, not looking at Travis, and Travis can’t help but gape at him.

“Are you serious?” he asks incredulously. “Are you really serious right now?” _Wes, look at us. We’re not fine after ONE day. Do you really think we’ll be alright after SIX?_

_Five._

“Goddamit, Wes!”

Wes’s shoulders hunch, and he ducks his head. “We’ll be _fine_ ,” he repeats like a mantra, and desperation tastes like salty tears on the back of his tongue.

Before Travis can point out how stupid that is, the waitress returns with their food. “Here you go,” she chirps, sliding a plate in front of him.

Travis stares at it. “I didn’t order this.”

She gives him a baffled look. “Yes, you did.”

“I’m pretty sure I didn’t.”

“Um…” She pulls out her notepad from her apron. “Yes, see? Grilled chicken sandwich, vinaigrette instead of mayo, fruit salad on the side.” She holds the pad out to show him.

“But—”

Wes kicks him under the table. _Shut up and take the sandwich._

_But I didn’t order this. You did!_

_Apparently I didn’t. Take the damn sandwich._

Travis grimaces at her. “Nevermind. Thanks.”

She gives him an uncertain smile. “Okay. And for you,” turning to Wes with the other plate, “a bacon cheeseburger with everything, and garlic fries.”

Wes gives her an insincere smile. “Thank you.”

With one last look, she leaves them to it.

_You still think we’re alright?_ Travis asks as they switch plates.

_Absolutely_ , Wes says defiantly, spearing a chunk of pineapple with his fork. _This was a minor aberration._

_And yesterday? And last night? This morning? All the other precious moments we’ve shared? Those are aberrations too, I suppose?_

_Sure._

Travis stares at his partner, and the lightbulb goes off. “Oh, _I_ get it. You’re in denial!”

Wes chews with vigor, scowling at him. _Am not._

“You are! You’re just floating along in your little inner tube on the river of denial.”

The chewing pauses, and Wes’s brow furrows. “Your metaphors are getting weird.”

“Shut up.” Travis takes a bite of his burger. Delicious bacon-y cheeseburger goodness explodes across his tongue. _Oh wow, man, you’re missing out here. This burger is awesome. Anyway, I don’t know why I’m surprised. Denial is what you’re good at._

“Shut up and eat your burger,” Wes grumbles, glaring at his plate. _I’m not in denial. I’m being realistic. We’re going to be fine because we HAVE to be fine._ He takes a breath. “There’s no other option.”

“There is another option,” Travis points out.

“Not a viable one,” Wes snaps, glowering at his sandwich like it personally offended him. “We’ll be _fine_.”

But unease ripples through his mind, and doubt curdles Travis’s stomach.

\---

Truth be told, the thought of five more days like this makes Wes itch. He wants to clean and organize and throw himself into work until he gets lost and doesn’t have to think anymore. Because when he thinks, he gets nervous and the doubts rise to the top.

It’s not that he thinks they won’t survive. They will. They’re not going to kill themselves like the Keeners did, and if they get to that point he hopes they’ll be rational enough to call the captain first.

No, what worries him is the thought of knowing too much. Travis has already learned things about Wes he never wanted shared, and vice versa, and it’s a strain on them, but there’s still so much more Wes doesn’t want brought to light.

The fence Dr. Ryan put up isn’t enough to keep them completely separate, and if they’re not paying attention it’s easy for things to slip through. Like the sandwich snafu. And the more that leaks, the more that they learn about one another, the harder it will be go back to the way things were.

So yes, maybe Wes is in denial. Maybe he’s avoiding thinking about all the ways this could go wrong and focusing on telling himself that they’ll be alright no matter what.

It’s better than thinking about the alternative.

Losing Travis is the one thing Wes isn’t okay with.

\---

They don’t talk on the way to Travis’s place. They stay on their sides of the mental fence and don’t think at each other. They don’t, really, even look at each other. The tension hangs thick between them, an almost tangible feel that makes the car small and claustrophobic.

There’s a great sigh of relief from both of them when Travis climbs out at his apartment building. He grabs his stuff and says his goodbyes without meeting Wes’s eyes.

“Hey Travis,” Wes calls softly, and the darker man pauses. Wes stares at the dash, tapping his thumbs on the steering wheel. “Stay out of my head tonight.”

It’s the same thing he said last night, but it means so much more. Because now they know how easily the lines can be crossed, and there’s nothing easy-going about it.

Travis sighs and gives him a weary smile. “I’ll try, man. But the same goes for you, too.”

Wes nods stiffly, staring straight out the windshield, and doesn’t say anything else.

Travis scuffs his foot and looks down at the ground. “Night, Wes.”

“Night, Travis.”

They linger, for a heartbeat, two men together but apart. There are a dozen things they _could_ say to each other, words and dreams they’ve been hiding in their chests.

But they don’t. They stay on their sides of the fence and keep their thoughts carefully sanitized.

After a moment, Wes nods to himself and pulls away, refusing to think about the ways he wants to stay. Travis watches him go, but he doesn’t call Wes back, doesn’t tell Wes how much he doesn’t want him to go.

\---

A storm is brewing.

\---

Travis decides to go to bed early. He can’t stand the thought of spending another night listening to Wes’s loneliness, and since going out last night ended _so_ well…

He _does_ think about going over and hanging out with Wes. No hanky-panky, just spending time together. But things are tense enough as it is, and Wes is very clearly sending _No Trespassing_ vibes in his direction.

So. Sleep. Definitely a good idea. Maybe he’ll wake up in the morning and it will all have been a dream.

\---

Wes gets no farther in his book tonight than he did last night. He’s distracted by so many things and can’t even manage to concentrate on a single word. He finally tosses the book aside and starts getting ready for bed.

It happens as he’s brushing his teeth; something makes him perk up on alert. There’s no sound around him, other than the usual hotel noises. After a second, he focuses inward, and finds it. 

Travis’s mind has gone quiet.

Not silent, not completely. (Wes rather suspects that complete silence, in a situation like this, would mean Travis was dead. He also further suspects he would do a lot more than simply perk up if Travis died in his head.)

Not silence, but _quiet_ , the winds of Travis’s mind almost non-existent, like a cool breeze on an autumn day. Practically unnoticeable. And it’s calm, twilight falling over the landscape of Travis’s brain, and Wes realizes his partner is asleep.

Something in Wes’s chest relaxes, something he’s kept tense without realizing since this whole thing started. Travis is asleep, which means he doesn’t have to act like someone is constantly watching over his shoulder even when he’s alone. He can let his guard down a little.

Feeling better than he has all day, Wes finishes his nightly routine. He’s even humming a little when he climbs into bed.

He makes sure to put his guard back up again right before he drifts off. They’ve had enough bleed-through as it is—no need to have their dreams overlapping as well.

_It’s fine_ , he assures himself. After last night, what’s the worst that could happen?

\---

(He really should know better.)

\---

Travis is in a bedroom. It’s not _his_ bedroom, but it’s familiar nonetheless. It’s the sort of bedroom he imagines he’ll have someday, when he has a house of his own.

Wes is there too, which says things about certain things that Travis isn’t going to talk or think about at all.

It’s a good dream, one he’s had before, and Travis falls into it with relish.

They’re both naked, which is always a good start to any dream. With a lascivious grin, Wes crawls down his chest, leading to the truly good parts of this scene, which after the clusterfuck of the last few days, is a wonderful prospect indeed.

He doesn’t notice when it starts raining outside. At best, it adds ambiance.

He _does_ notice when Wes pauses, jerks back, and looks around with a completely baffled look on his face. Travis is mildly confused, because this is a fairly routine dream and _this_ is not part of the script.

Then Wes’s face goes from baffled to mildly horrified, and he scrambles back, nearly falling off the bed in the process.

“Jesus Christ, Travis!” Wes hisses. When the suit materializes on Wes’s shoulders, Travis gets an inkling of what’s happening here.

Travis isn’t one to claim modesty, but he flushes hot and grabs the sheets, covering himself. “Wes!” he squeaks. “What are you _doing_ here?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” Wes looks pointedly at the bed, lips twisted in something too shrouded for Travis to recognize. “You really can’t hold back, can you?”

“Hey!” Travis sits up, scowling. “Should I remind you that this is _my_ dream you barged in on? I’m allowed to dream whatever I want.”

Wes looks around the room. “Yes, I can see that.”

Wes stands in the bedroom Travis imagined, a dream bedroom in the future that Wes fits comfortably into (like he belongs there), and Travis has a moment of panic. _Don’t think about it_ , he tells himself frantically. _Don’t think about anything._

Don’t think about the bedroom or how Wes belongs there so perfectly or what that means because they’re not there yet, they’re not even close to being there yet and they may _never_ get there because Travis fucked up, he pushed too hard and probably ruined everything so _don’t think about it._

“Well, maybe you should let me get back to it,” he snaps defensively, sharper than he means. Wes flinches back like he can feel the barbs—and maybe he can, in this shared mental landscape.

“Well, maybe I will,” Wes bristles, stomping to the bedroom door before Travis can apologize for the daggers in his words. He didn’t mean them, not the way they came out _don’t think about it._

But Wes is already stalking away like an angry cat, and trying to explain now would just bring up things he’s not ready to talk about.

Wes grabs the door handle, glowering back at Travis. “Happy dreaming,” he snaps sarcastically, yanking open the door.

They’re both surprised by the deluge that comes through the door. Travis starts and pulls his feet up under him, even though he’s on top of the bed. Wes jumps back like something’s biting at his feet, distress crossing his face for just a moment. Wes slams the door shut, but it’s like the dam has been breached; water continues to seep in around the edges.

“What the _hell_ , man?” Travis crawls to the edge of the bed, looking down. The stain in slowly spreading, lapping at Wes’s shoes as he backs up.

“Sorry,” Wes says, the back of his knees hitting the bed. “I, uh, I’ll leave. I will. Just…sometimes this happens.” He leans as far back into the bed as he can without actually crawling on top of it.

“Oh, for the love of—” Travis grabs Wes around the waist, hauling him up. “Get up here.” He doesn’t know what it is about the water—it looks murky and dark but harmless enough to _him_ —but Wes is obviously freaked and Travis isn’t one to stand by while his partner is so clearly distressed. “Sometimes what happens?”

Wes scrambles gratefully up, tucking his feet underneath him. He stares at the water on the floor with trepidation, obviously reluctant to even touch it.

“I must say, this _is_ a nicer dream than the one I was having,” Wes says mildly, looking around again and masterfully avoiding the question.

“Why, because of the flooding?”

Wes sighs, hugging his knees and resting his chin on top, like a child trying to hide from the monsters in the dark. Travis has never seen Wes so vulnerable, and he wonders if this is just because this is a dream. Nothing is real here, not really. It’s all just fantasy and metaphor. 

“It’s not flooding, Travis,” Wes says softly.

“Then _what_?”

Wes stares at the wet floor with dark eyes. “Sometimes I drown.”

Water starts running down the walls.

\---

It’s a dream, so time is a little iffy, but it feels like maybe twenty minutes have passed. The water is rising fast, already a foot deep, and a wind is blowing, whispering insidious little murmurings. The words are unintelligible, but the intent is cruel.

“You’re pretty fucked up,” Travis says after a moment.

Wes lets out a bitter laugh, watching the water on the walls go from a trickle to a steady stream. “Says the pot,” he grumbles, watching the water get higher. Two feet now.

“What?”

“Pot. Kettle. Black. You know how this goes.”

“Dude.” Travis waves an all-encompassing hand. “You’re the one flooding my dream. A very nice dream, I might add, before you crashed it.”

“Really?” Wes gives Travis an incredulous look. “You really have no idea what goes on in your own head, do you?”

“Uh, yeah, I do.” Travis again waves around the room. “Sexy times. That I was really going to enjoy before this turned into a scene from _Titanic_.”

Wes continues to stare at his partner. “It is _amazing_ how oblivious you are. I can’t tell if you’re ignoring it deliberately or if you really don’t know.” They are mind-melded right now and Wes can’t tell. That’s something special. “Normal people don’t suppress so much.”

“Hey, I’m not suppressing anything!”

“Then you’re just obtuse.”

Travis’s eyes narrow. “That’s another way of saying ‘stupid’, isn’t it?”

“If the shoe fits.”

The darker man sighs. “Fine. I’ll bite. What am I so oblivious about?”

Wes looks at the water, dark and lightless, three feet high and almost to the edge of the bed, and listens to the voices on the wind.

“You really don’t know?” he asks, because how could Travis _not?_

“If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking, would I?”

The water licks at the edge of the bed, creeping onto this little island of safety. He can see something in the water, flashes of scales and teeth, and he hugs his knees a little closer to his chest because he knows what’s lurking below the surface.

Wes looks away, looks at Travis because that’s better than watching the water. Travis, who is still waiting expectantly for him to explain.

Seriously, _how_ can Travis not realize?

“I brought the water,” Wes says, because it’s true, “but Travis. The wind is all you.”

And as instantly as that, Wes can hear the voices, clear as day, little whispers going _“Unwanted”_ and _“Worthless brat”_.

Travis blanches, hands coming up like he wants to cover his ears. The glare he levels in Wes’s direction is scorching. “It was a _perfectly_ good dream before you arrived!”

“I know.” Wes probably would have enjoyed it too, if he’d allowed it to continue. But instead he flooded Travis’s mind with his own issues and brought Travis’s baggage to light, and he’s well aware the mess tonight is entirely his fault.

He swallows, scooting to the end of the bed. Taking a breath, he sticks his legs in the water, wincing as a thousand tiny needles stabs up his calves. The water has teeth, and there’s nowhere safe.

“Whoa, hey—what are you doing?” Travis grabs his arm, tries to pull him out of the water. Wes wants nothing more than to let it happen; instead, he shakes off his partner’s touch and gives him a small, sad smile.

“I have to go,” he tells Travis. “I’ve been here long enough. You don’t need my demons ruining you too.”

Travis opens his mouth, but Wes leans in, stops the words with the lightest touch of his finger to plush lips. (Oh, he wants to cover those lips with his own, suck Travis’s breath out of his lungs and into his own but air isn’t enough to take on the water and Travis isn’t enough to save him.) 

“Thank you for letting me stay,” he breathes, pressing his forehead to Travis’s. Travis looks stricken, like he thinks Wes is going to disappear if he leaves.

It’s fine. Wes has faced all this and more. He’ll survive.

_I’m sorry for the damage I cause_ , he thinks, and the thought flies between them, faster than words because this place _is_ Travis, his mind and his heart and his soul in one, thought made manifest, and the idea in Wes’s head simply gets absorbed into the walls. 

“Wes,” Travis says, voice breaking, and then, “Wait! You said ‘cause’, not ‘caused’. What’s that—Wes!”

Wes slips off the end of the bed, out of Travis’s reaching arms, and the water engulfs him before he can hear the end of that question.

He sinks farther than he should, lost in endless black waters in seconds, and Wes is so, so sorry he brought this to Travis. Travis shouldn’t have to deal with this. This is Wes’s burden to bear.

From the deeps comes the monster of his nightmares, a mermaid with silver scales and shark teeth and the face of a dead young man. Sharp nails like claws latch onto his legs, and right before he’s dragged into the depths, he thinks one last thought.

_I don’t think we’re going to make it._

\---

Travis wakes up gasping. His lungs ache like he actually held his breath and he can still feel the pressure, surrounding him, _squeezing_ him, and holy shit how does Wes do it every day? If Travis felt like that all the time he’d have put a bullet in his skull a long time ago.

Pushing aside his own issues (i.e. the voices on the wind, because it’s so much easier to focus on Wes’s problems than his own) Travis sits up. He can still hear Wes’s thought, ringing in his ears like a death knell, _i don’t think we’re going to make it_.

“Fuck _that_.”

Travis gets up, glances at the clock. 1:17 AM. Great. Just the sort of midnight awakening he needed. _Not_. Hands on his hips, he walks around a bit, downs a glass of water. When his heart has finally stopped racing and his lungs no longer ache, he sits on the end of the bed and closes his eyes. And takes a step through the gate in his head.

The waters in Wes’s mind are turbulent, roiling and thrashing like they beginning of a storm. But the waters are also dark and hazy, and it occurs to him that Wes didn’t wake up with Travis. Which is completely normal because they _are_ completely separate people despite the fact that Travis is currently standing inside Wes’s brain, and he really hopes he doesn’t become too accustomed to this, that he doesn’t expect complete synchronization between them, because this is _not_ normal and he has to keep remembering that. Losing sight of that will mean this whole thing is well and truly beyond repair.

But that is neither here nor there. Pushing it aside, Travis reaches back into himself, drawing on his own wakefulness. It sparks inside him like lightning, bright and alive and just the thing to wake Wes up.

Then he hesitates a second. What if this isn’t okay…?

_You don’t take anything I don’t give_ , Wes had said and Travis agreed, but this isn’t really taking anything, is it? It’s a little bit like trespassing, but Travis is the one who’s giving here.

And if he’s _really_ going into semantics, _Wes_ is the one who gave everything first, the moment he started flooding Travis’s mind.

Looking at the waters around him, at the storm brewing inside of his partner, Travis decides that it’s fine. It’s all fine. He’s not taking anything here, and Wes looks like he needs to wake up now anyway.

Travis takes a breath and releases the ball of lightning.

It sinks into the water, sparking and flashing, bringing light to the dark depths, and then he feels Wes bolt upright, can almost feel the change as Wes’s brain switches from ‘asleep’ to ‘awake’. He backs to his own side of the fence quickly, not wanting to deal with the sure-to-ensue argument, and opens his eyes in his own apartment.

_Travis?_ Wes thinks shakily. _What did…you woke me up?_

_It’s only fair_ , Travis responds flippantly, hopping out of bed. _You woke me up first._

The words are glib, but he can’t help the undercurrent of worry that seeps through. It’s a pain in the ass, this mental connection, because it’s so much easier to feign normalcy when his partner _can’t_ read his mind.

Not that it does much good. Instead of responding snarkily how he _should_ about Travis’s improper dream, Wes shies away completely, shame coloring his words. _Sorry, I shouldn’t…sorry. You didn’t need that thrown at you._

_Nu-uh, bud, you don’t get to do that._ Travis pulls on his boots, quickly doing up the laces. _You don’t get to make this about me. I had last night. This is about you right now._

_I…what?_

_Prepare yourself_. Grinning at his brilliance, Travis tugs on his jacket, grabbing his helmet from the closet. _You said sometimes you drown. Well, I’m going to show you what it’s like to fly._

\---

_Oh, wow, Travis, no._

Travis slings his leg over his motorcycle, and Wes can hear the grin in his thoughts. _Are you sure? You could use a pick-me-up._

_Going fast on that deathtrap isn’t a pick-me-up. It’s an accident waiting to happen._

_Have you ever ridden a motorcycle before?_

_Yes. And I didn’t like it._

There’s a beat, and then Travis laughs. _You big liar. You’ve never ridden one in your life._

Wes turns up his nose even though he knows Travis can’t see it. _That’s because I have no intention of becoming a 60 MPH smear on the asphalt._

_That’s not gonna happen._

_Statistically, you’re more likely to die on a motorcycle than in a car._

_You just pulled that out of your ass._

_I did not. It’s totally true._

_Wes._ Travis starts the bike, and Wes can feel it, echoes of the engine’s thrum rippling through him. _Relax, man. Sit back and enjoy the ride._

_Travis…_

_Trust me, Wes._

And Wes sighs, because he can’t argue with that. He _does_ trust Travis, even at their worst. _I do trust you._

_Then step inside and go with it, man_. Travis snaps his helmet down and pulls out of the parking lot.

Groaning, Wes falls back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. He could just ignore Travis, block his partner out and try to go back to sleep. But he’s had enough of these sorts of nights to know sleep isn’t going to happen quickly, and if it does it certainly won’t be restful.

And he understands what Travis is trying to do here, so he closes his eyes and steps inside his partner’s head.

_Over here, man_ , Travis calls, and Wes follows Travis’s voice, settling into the spot indicated. From here he can feel it all, the rush of wind over his body, the engine roaring beneath him, the power and control as Travis guides the bike around a corner.

There’s a freedom of a sort, just letting go and giving someone else control. It’s not something Wes does easily, he knows that, but if there’s one person he’d be okay giving control to, it’s Travis.

_Really? That’s so sweet, man._

_Occasionally. You can have control occasionally._

_This is a big moment, man. I’m all emotional. I think I’m tearing up._

_You’ll really be tearing up when I punch you in the face._

_If you’re giving up control, does this mean I can drive your car?_

_Now let’s not go crazy._

_Too late_ , Travis laughs, and pumps the throttle.

Wes sits back and, for once, just goes with it, lets go and allows himself to enjoy to moment. Travis laughs again, and the bike races through the nighttime streets.

\---

Somehow, it’s not actually a surprise when Travis pulls into the parking lot of Wes’s hotel. They’ve been leading up to this since the moment they joined minds.

Travis is also not surprised to find, when he gets to the sixth floor, that Wes is a stubborn bastard. He’s known that for a long time.

“Come on, Wes.” Travis pounds lightly on the door. “Let me in, man.”

_The bike ride was very nice_ , Wes begrudgingly admits, _but that doesn’t actually lead to a booty call, you know._

Because they both know why Travis ended up here instead of going back home.

_Booty call? Man, no one calls it that anymore._

_I don’t know what you call it_. There’s an annoyed sigh, mixed with exasperation and a hint of desperation. “Go _away_ , Travis.”

“You don’t let me in, I’ll come in anyway. I have a spare key.”

“How did you get that?”

“You gave it to me.”

“I most certainly did _not_.”

_Okay, you’re right. I swiped it off the maid’s cart downstairs_. It is absolutely amazing how sharp Wes’s wordless disapproval feels. _I was gonna put it back!_

_Put it back now, Travis_ , Wes commands, leveling a glare he can feel through the door.

_Fine_ , Travis grumbles, turning away. _But you’d better let me in when I come back._

Wes doesn’t say anything, which is the third not-surprising thing tonight. Wes is never one to talk and this is a situation Wes has been avoiding for pretty much two days now. Then Travis comes back from returning the borrowed master key and Wes’s door is ajar, and that _is_ a surprise. He pushes the door open cautiously, like he’s expecting something to jump out at him, because he was expecting at least another five minutes of argument through the door.

“Oh, don’t be stupid, come in and shut the door.”

Travis steps inside, shuts the door behind him—and pauses, leaning against the door to take a long, fortifying breath.

_Here we go…_

\---

Wes is waiting for him, sitting in the chair by the bed. His face is expressionless, but his arms are crossed tight over his chest and his leg is jittering up and down.

The only available spot is on the bed itself. Travis sits on the edge, props his ankle on his knee. When he taps his fingers on his thigh, the pace matches Wes’s leg.

“So,” he starts, because it’s pretty obvious Wes is willing to wait for the sun to burn out before he touches this conversation. “So you might be right.”

One blonde eyebrow goes up, and mild shock radiates Travis’s way. Obviously _not_ how Wes expected this to go. “Really,” Wes says flatly, disbelievingly. 

“Yeah.” Travis purses his lips, looking around the room. “You know. Even a monkey can type Shakespeare.”

Wes’s face shifts from _Why are you saying these out-of-character compliment-type things_ to _Ah there it is I was waiting for the insult._

“I knew you couldn’t just admit I was right without throwing something extra in there,” Wes declares, leaning back.

“Ha ha, very funny. Stop trying to distract me.” He takes a breath. “You were right. We’re not gonna make it.”

Wes’s leg stops, and his shoulders slump a minuscule degree. _I wish you were admitting I was right about something else._

_Me too, man. Me too_. Travis leans forward, fingers still nervously tapping away on his leg. “We’re not gonna last five more days. Hell, I don’t know if we’ll last _one_ more day. We gotta do it.”

Wes flinches without moving a muscle, mentally shying away even though he was clearly expecting this. “We can’t.”

“We have to.”

The blonde opens his mouth, gaze shifting to the side, away from Travis. His throat works a few times before he says, “ _I_ can’t.”

“Sure you can. Unless…” Travis’s gaze goes to Wes’s crotch. “You mean you _can’t_.”

Travis would describe the color Wes turns as ‘strawberry crème’.

“It’s not—I _can_ , that’s not the issue.” Wes shrinks in on himself like he can avoid the issue if he can make himself small enough. “But I can’t.”

“Why the hell not? This is the only chance we’ve got!”

Wes jerks to his feet, saying frenetically, “It’s fine, it’s nothing, we’ll figure something else out,” but he spilled too much of himself earlier and the answer floats to the surface of Travis’s mind.

Travis’s eyes widen. “Really?”

Wes goes scarlet, shaking, his head even though the truth is already out there. “ _No_. I mean, yes, obviously, but—it’s fine, it’s all fine, I’ve got it under control so you don’t have to—this doesn’t have to change anything, it’s _fine_.” He runs his hands through his hair, not looking at Travis. “But I can’t, I just—I _can’t_ , Travis.”

His words are a jumbled mess and his mind is a constant litany of _I’m sorry_ and _Please don’t hate me_ and _Don’t go don’t go please_ , and Travis wants nothing more than to wrap Wes in his arms and hold him tight.

So he does, because why not?

Wes goes stiff as granite, arms pushing at Travis’s chest. “Travis, _don’t_ —”

And Travis can’t help but laugh a little, because of course this would be the one time Wes isn’t paying attention. “Now who’s the oblivious one?”

Wes bristles, anger cutting through the panic and that’s good, Wes will be able to focus better if he’s not freaking out. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” he snarls, glaring at Travis.

“It _means_ that you’re not paying attention, Wes.”

Wes stares at him in bafflement. “To _what?_ ”

_To me, dumbass._

“This has nothing to do with you,” Wes growls, resuming his struggle to get away. 

“Actually, it kind of does,” Travis points out, which just makes Wes smack his shoulder. “But I’m not talking about what you feel. I’m talking about _me_.” _Wes, look at me._

And he lays it open, everything he’s been hiding away this whole time. Because Wes has revealed everything and Travis can’t do any less.

Wes stares at him, the upset scowl on his face slowly easing into surprise. No, shock, shock is definitely a more apt word. He starts shaking his head, disbelief rippling outward, disbelief mixed with denial because this is _Wes_ and Wes can’t just accept anything that’s been handed to him so easily.

(It isn’t easy, it’s tearing Travis’s soul open to do this, but Wes has unintentionally bared so much and Travis has to do the same or everything they are falls apart. They don’t work if they’re not on even footing with each other.)

Wes shakes his head, stunned shock freezing his mind in place. “No,” he says, “no, _no_. You’re lying.” But it’s more disbelieving denial than anything. Hope mixes with fear, a sickening combination that makes Travis’s tongue tingle.

“Wes, look at me,” he murmurs softly, “do you really think I could lie to you right now? Do you think I _would?_ ”

Wes slumps against him, presses their foreheads together. His eyes are closed but he’s watching, evaluating, deciding, because Wes never makes a decision without thinking things through first.

Finally Wes chuckles, broken and resigned. “This isn’t exactly how I thought it would go.”

“Which part confuses you? The mind-meld or the fact that I know?”

Wes flinches, answer enough.

_I know_ , Travis soothes, _I know_. He had no intention of telling Wes either, was prepared to lock it away until the end of time because he’s no good, he knows that, he’s a seething mass of complexes and insecurities that can only hurt people he cares about. And Wes, Wes is broken enough all on his own, he doesn’t need Travis pushing on the cracks and giving him something worthless.

_You’re not worthless_ , Wes murmurs, slowly bringing his arms up around Travis, much for his own comfort as for Travis. _You’re not worthless and you wouldn’t ruin me. I—_

It’s only a touch of emotion, just a flicker-flash before it’s gone, his partner reeling it in as fast as he can, but it’s enough, and Travis laughs weakly.

Wes thinks he’s just as broken as Travis, just as likely to ruin anything good he touches. Same feelings in the opposite direction.

“My god, we’re a pair,” Travis chuckles. “No wonder we get along so well.”

“Birds of a feather,” Wes remarks dryly. It’s too brittle to come off as his usual humor but they both appreciate the effort.

It doesn’t make this any easier, but it’s a step.

\---

Finally, Wes pulls away. Travis would happily continue hugging, he’s tactile like that, but Wes isn’t, and anyway, hugging isn’t going to get the job done.

“I guess we’d better do this,” he sighs.

_I bet if you tried, you could sound less like you’re marching to your execution_ , Travis snarks, settling on the edge of the bed.

_Oh shut up_. Wes glares at him. _You don’t want to do this either_. The truth is right there, hovering a couple layers down. Close enough to touch.

“Not like this, no,” Travis admits. It makes Wes hesitate, because he was thinking the same thing, he really was—not that he’d ever hoped it would get this far but if it _did_ , he really wouldn’t have wanted it to happen because of a forced mind-meld that couldn’t be fixed any other way.

Wes paces, runs a hand through his hair, tries to bury all the extra flotsam because he needs to focus on this, right now, not anything else.

They’ll do this. Everything else can be dealt with in the aftermath, just like Dr. Ryan said.

“Okay.” Wes turns to Travis, takes a breath. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

Travis studies him, and Wes doesn’t feel Travis in his mind but it still feels like he sees right through Wes. “Are you sure?”

No, he’s not sure. He’s already afraid that this is going to be too much, that their relationship won’t be able to survive all the secrets that have been dredged up and revealed. If they have sex that doesn’t mean anything only to save their own skins, then it could taint everything they already have, and everything they could have in the future.

But if it _does_ mean something, then what? Travis runs away from permanence and Wes isn’t ready for anything like a relationship and neither of them can say the word even in their own heads so if they do this and expose themselves( _everything_ ) then what? What happens then?

_One step at a time, man_. Travis holds out his arms. “Come here, Wes.”

Wes takes one step. “This could ruin everything forever.” They could ruin each other. They could ruin themselves.

“We’ll worry about that later. One step at a time.” He still holds out his arms, an invitation that promises nothing. 

Or everything, if he wants it.

If nothing falls apart after.

“Come here, babe. It’ll be alright.”

Wes smiles, a nervous, sad sort of air. _Do I really have a choice?_ But he doesn’t need Travis to say anything, because he already knows the answer.

Wes steps into the circle of Travis’s arms and lets himself be held.

\---

It’s a comfort, for a moment, just holding and touching and being. Together. Not expecting anything. Not doing anything. Just _being_ together, holding each other close, holding the seams together where they’re falling apart.

It’s the calm before the storm.

\---

Slowly, Wes pulls away, eyes off to the side and not looking at Travis even a little. He swallows, and Travis is a little bit transfixed by the way his throat bobs. “So…what do we do?”

And now Travis is staring in disbelief.

“Seriously? Dude, we just had a whole conversation about this.” Travis waves a hand. “Remember? We have to _do_ the _do_ , man.” He waggles his eyebrows, like that will make Wes look at him again. “We have to consummate our marriage.”

Wes doesn’t look at him but he blushes bright red, so that’s something.

And then he hits Travis on the shoulder. Not gently.

“That’s not what I meant, asshole.” Wes’s eyes go up, like he’s looking heavenward for guidance. Or maybe just trying to work out his thoughts. His mind is rough and shaky and it’s hard to get a read for all the nervousness floating around in there. (And the longing, the aching, desperate longing that’s echoed in Travis’s chest, bouncing between them and only getting stronger the longer they stand there.)

“I mean…” Wes frowns, licks his lips. Travis is yet again distracted, and he has to force himself to listen when Wes speaks. “If it were only about sex, this whole thing would have been done last night. There must be something…more. So what do we do?”

“That’s…” Travis’s brain stalls. “Actually, that’s a good point. Why are you asking me like I know?”

Wes finally meets his eyes. Of course, it’s to shoot him an annoyed glower, but that’s nothing unusual, and it’s better than the avoidance.

“Alright, let’s brainstorm,” Travis says, leaning back. Since his arms are still wrapped around Wes, this prompts Wes to come with him. Wes tries to resist, moves to sit beside him, but that brings up recollection of that truly awful dream Wes threw into his brain so hah, yeah, that’s not going to happen. Travis gives a tug, flopping onto his back, and Wes ends up sprawling on top of him. Yes. This is much better.

Wes struggles for a second, then gives in and sighs, mind resigned to Travis’s stupidity. But really, it’s not stupidity. If this evening is going to go where it need to go, might as well get it off to the right start.

Wes sighs again, dropping his head onto Travis’s chest. _I don’t know what we’re supposed to do_ , he admits, sounding pained but that’s only because Wes doesn’t like admitting he doesn’t _actually_ know everything.

Travis purses his lips and stares at the ceiling, thinking about everything Kendall told them about the stupid little statue things. About Greece and Plato and soul mates and beings born with two of everything except a heart, so when they were split in half, it was broken right down the middle.

And he gets an idea.

“What if,” he says slowly, “it’s not just about the sex.”

Wes sits up a little. “I’m listening.”

Travis works the idea on his tongue. “What if…” He pauses to find the right words, but the idea moves between them, gusting right over to Wes’s side of the fence, _what if it’s about marriage love trust exposure one heart in two bodies and letting everything go what if._

He sees the moment Wes understands, watches Wes’s eyes widen.

“Oh,” Wes says. “That’s…actually a half-decent theory.” Unspoken are the words _I think you’re rather brilliant for coming up with it_ but Travis is sure it’s there somewhere, floating in the depths of Wes’s little brain. Wes just won’t admit it because he’s stubborn like that.

“I know,” Travis nods. “I get like that sometimes.”

Wes nods. He frowns. And then he goes, “Well, shit.”

And Travis can’t help but laugh weakly. “I know, right?”

Because of all the things they can do, _exposing_ themselves to each other isn’t one of them. They’ve had enough trouble up to this point, going any further is just…

Travis thumps his head dully against the bedspread. “Well, _shit_.”

Wes shifts, doing unpleasantly pleasant things to Travis’s body, and offers, “I suppose the first thing is just try to…relax?”

“Relax? Wes, we’re psychically mind-melded by a pair of ancient Greek statuettes, and the only way to get rid of the curse is to have sex while also exposing every fibre of ourselves to each other, which is going to be, like, hella hard because we’re both emotionally constipated, and you expect us to just _relax_ into it?”

Wes whacks his shoulder again. “I’ve been here the whole time, I didn’t need the summation. And I’m not emotionally constipated.”

“Are you kidding?” Travis barks a laugh, staring incredulously. “You’re the most emotionally constipated guy I know! I’d slip you laxatives but I don’t know where you’d get ones that make you purge _feelings_.”

Wes bristles, pushing up on his arms. “Well at least I don’t _suppress_ my feelings, I actually _experience_ them.”

“Yeah! You experience them and then you bottle them up until they explode. Cuz that’s _so_ much healthier!”

Wes glowers, jaw tightens, and he opens his mouth to retort.

Before he can say a word, Travis launches up and kisses him.

\---

The storm explodes into life, winds whipping at the water and the waves crashing high. Anger carries the storm, but they’re not trying to destroy each other. They’re trying to break down barriers.

Wes said to relax, but the truth of the matter is, they’ve always let loose a lot easier when they’re fighting.

They crash against each other, swirling round and round, anger and need, frustration and desire and that warmth neither of them will admit to. They clash and mix and fall into each other, effortless because they’ve always fit together like pieces of a puzzle.

The wind pulls the waves into the sky; the water drags the air down. The whirlpool dives and the tempest rises and the hurricane forms, a seamless mix of the two. A perfect storm of emotion.

The fence between them crumples, swept up. It is flimsy and they are titans in this place. There are no barriers, no defenses. The only reason it worked in the first place was because they wanted it to, and they don’t want it anymore.

They’re a tangle of limbs and thoughts, divesting clothing even as they fall into each other’s minds. It’s sweat and flesh and motion, and as they rise the storm does too, consuming everything in its path until there’s nothing inside _but_ the storm, filling them to the brim.

When there’s nowhere else for them to rise, they explode together, the same wordless cry of exultation falling from their lips in unison.

They collapse, breathless and flushed. They’re not done, not yet, the storm rages on, but there’s a moment of peace at the heart of the hurricane, a silent bubble of calm at the eye of the storm.

Slowly, Wes turns his head. _Holy shit_ , he gasps, too winded to form the words on his tongue.

_Jesus fucking Christ_ , Travis agrees, lips curled in a breathless, ecstatic grin.

He rolls over, heart racing but ready to go. _What next?_

Wes grimaces, rolling so they’re face-to-face, bodies flush against one another. _Now’s the hard part. We have to share._

Travis groans. _Right, right._

Silence descends, floating between them the way they float in the eye of the storm. It’s peaceful—gently calm. But calm isn’t enough to fix this, to do what needs to be done.

Travis clears his throat. _So, who wants to go first?_

_Oh, you big baby_. Wes rolls his eyes, grabs Travis tight, and falls.

They hit the water hard, crashing through the surface and diving down, down, down. In moments, it’s pitch dark, pressure pressing down from every side. Travis tries to pull free, every instinct telling him to go up, get out of the dark and find air again.

Wes holds him close and doesn’t let go, dragging him deeper. _Just breathe_ , he whispers. _You’ll get used to it in a moment._

And Travis is acutely reminded that this is _Wes_ , that Wes lives with and feels this pressure _every day_. And Travis is deeper inside Wes than anyone has ever been (both literally and figuratively).

He doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing he could say. So he keeps his mouth shut and breathes water like air.

The descent continues, to the point that Travis is wondering if the darkness will ever end, but just as he’s about to ask—there’s light and earth, at the bottom of the sea.

They land lightly, bouncing gently on the loose-packed soil. Wes instantly lets him go, takes a short step back. _Well_ , he says hesitantly. His arms come up. _This is me_.

He sounds resigned to Travis’s disappointment, but Travis looks around and can’t see anything to be disappointed about.

There’s light here, colored bioluminescence gently illuminating the surroundings. Hope even in the darkness.

Wes clears his throat, scuffs his foot and shifts pebbles and silt. _I know it’s not much..._

_I wouldn’t say that_ , Travis says absently, crouching down. He runs his hands through silt, letting it fall through his fingers.

Somehow, he’s not surprised to find, at Wes’s core, is the earth. Unshakeable, indomitable, slow to change. There are cracks in the ground, deep black crevasses that probably go all the way through Wes’s heart, but he’s still standing. Rock-solid and steadfast. It’s so perfect it hurts.

Wes kicks out again, glancing away. _It’s just a lot of dirt, Travis_ , he mumbles, and there’s something in his words, something pained and hollow, and Travis’s chest aches for it. He rises, reaches out, holds Wes close and smiles.

_It’s not just dirt, and you’re amazing, Wes._

Wes sighs, slumping in Travis’s hold, and thinks, _No, I’m not_. It’s not aimed at Travis, not really, but this is Wes’s heart and it resounds in every drop of water around them, shudders the earth beneath their feet in heartache and pain.

_Babe_ , Travis chuckles, shaking his head. _How can you not see?_ Like he’s one to talk, but Wes has always been the observant one of the two, so Travis would have thought Wes would…but no, Wes has always been his own harshest critic. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised.

Wes scowls, pushing away. _See what?_ Suspicion, now, like he’s already planning to reject whatever Travis can come up with.

Travis can only shake his head again. _Wes. It’s all a metaphor. You’re the earth, with constant pressure on you, every day, over and over and over_. He holds up his hand, fingers spread wide, and in his palm pebbles glitter. _Babe, you’re made of diamond._

Wes stares at the glittering fragments in Travis’s hand. His gaze slowly moves to the earth beneath his feet, mouth a round, silent ‘o’ of surprise. 

Travis takes his chance and pulls Wes close again. _Wesley Mitchell, you are the strongest thing in the world._

And Wes shudders and explodes, a thousand pieces of glittering light in Travis’s arms, pushed right over the edge with Travis’s words, and Travis is swept up by the emotions running througharoundbetween them, and he explodes too, following his partner.

When they reform, coalescing back into themselves, they’re back in the heart of the whirlwind. The storm has abated somewhat, the winds and waves easing, but it still runs rampant. They’re only halfway there.

Wes stares at Travis, and it feels like everything is leaking out of him, seeping into their surroundings until there’s no hiding anything. It makes him want to bury his head in the sand and pretend it’s all passing by, but there’s nowhere to hide anymore. Not with what he just did.

And then Travis smiles at him, gentle and awed, and tells him, _I think that was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen anyone do._

Being in the midst of their own minds doesn’t stop Wes from blushing. _Don’t be ridiculous, Travis._

_No, really_. Travis drifts closer, close enough to touch, running his fingers up Wes’s arm, and Wes shudders from the sensation and the feelings that flow through him at the touch. _You took the plunge. Just dived right in and opened yourself wide. And that…_ Travis grips his arms, still smiling that smile. Wes thought he knew all of Travis’s smiles, but he can’t place this one. _I meant what I said, babe. You’re amazing._

_The water puns are going to get old really fast_ , Wes snaps, because his throat is tight and if he doesn’t snark he’s going to cry or do something else hideously embarrassing.

_You love my puns and you know it_ , Travis laughs, but there’s an underlying current of _You love ME_ in there that neither of them are prepared to deal with, so Wes just rolls his eyes and doesn’t respond.

Travis looks around, watches the hurricane raging on around them. _Not quite there yet_ , he mumbles, and Wes sends a silent affirmation. No, they’re not quite done. If vulnerability and acceptance is what it’s all about, then they’re only halfway there.

The smile Travis sends his way is a little sickly around the edge, and _this_ one Wes recognizes. He doesn’t speak, but he reaches out, wraps his arms around Travis and sends as many positive, _I believe in you_ type feelings as he can.

His partner takes a breath, tucks him close. _Alright. My turn, I guess._

He looks up, and they fly.

Here above the storm, there is nothing but sky and the wind rushing by, absolute freedom with nothing holding them back. It’s everything Travis is, movement and energy, bound only by the walls and rules around him, and it’s everything Travis _wants_ , a place with no walls where he can be perfectly free to move and live and _be_ without anyone holding him back.

But there _is_ a wall, at the edge of the sky. It doesn’t look like anything is there, it looks like the sky continues forever, but there’s a barrier. Not something Dr. Ryan put in, this is too high for her to reach; this was put there by Travis himself.

_Travis?_ Wes asks, concerned because he can see the emotion on his partner’s face, the nervousness and fear as he lingers in front of the barrier.

Travis reaches out, presses his hand flat against nothing and just clings a little tighter to Wes. _It’s metaphor_ , he says again, _that’s all. It only means something if we let it_. And Wes would think he’d be impressed at Travis’s insight if it were any other circumstances, but he’s always known Travis is smarter than he lets on, and as has been pointed out over and over again, this is nowhere near normal.

_We can still go back_ , he offers, because he can see how upset Travis is about this, and there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for his partner.

Travis gives him a look, a _Don’t be stupid you big dumbass_ look, and he shakes his head. _I have to do it or it doesn’t count_ , he says, but there’s more, there’s _We have to be equal_ and _You shared yourself I can’t do any less_ mixed in too, laced into his words so tightly Wes couldn’t pull them apart if he tried.

_Okay_. Travis nods again, once, decisively, face set into a determined frown. _Let’s do this._

_I’m not going anywhere_ , Wes promises, and it’s not just about this, it’s about everything, after this is over and they’re back to normal. He won’t abandon Travis because of whatever he sees behind the barrier. He couldn’t. Not after what Travis said, not after the way Travis accepted him even after he saw the faults in his heart.

There is nothing Travis could show him that would make Wes leave now.

And Travis smiles, radiant and beautiful and if they weren’t so broken Wes could name the emotion in his partner’s eyes without flinching. (But it’s alright, because Travis can’t say it either. They’ll get there someday.)

_Let’s do this_ , Travis repeats, but he sounds a little more confident, a little less like he’s walking to his funeral.

Wes holds on tight, and Travis pushes through the barrier like it’s not even there.

There’s nothing on the other side.

_Nothing_ , empty space void of life or air or light. Wes immediately gasps, feeling like he’s been plunged in cold water—his chest squeezes and he recoils back.

This, he thinks, this is what loneliness feels like, a constant, empty void where something should be.

_It’s alright_ , Travis coos, not letting go. _It’s alright. You’ll get used to it in a minute._ And it’s almost exactly what Wes said, when he was drawing Travis inside himself, but Travis doesn’t live this every single moment of every single day. Travis shoves everything behind a wall and pretends it doesn’t exist, and he only lets it show when the cracks in the wall get too wide to be patched up.

Travis flinches minutely, like he can hear Wes’s thoughts and is drawing accusations from them that Wes didn’t think. _So I’m a coward_ , he says, half-defensively and half-flippantly, drawing away even though he doesn’t let Wes go. _Doesn’t mean a thing._

_I didn’t say you were a coward, Travis_ , Wes snaps back, glaring at his partner. Stupid, stubborn, bull-headed asshole, picking up on things that Wes didn’t mean. He may have, _for a moment_ , thought the word, but Travis is a different person than Wes, with a different way of dealing with things. Wes wouldn’t have suppressed this sort of emotion in his chest.

(If it were him, Wes would have felt it every second of the day, raked it over his heart and flagellated his skin with it as his due.

He has issues. He knows it. That doesn’t mean he thinks any less of the way Travis deals with things. It’s just _different_ , and Wes knows that.)

Travis relaxes a little, picking up on the things Wes didn’t say within the things Wes did. Wes almost can’t decide if, when it’s all over, this is going to be strange or a relief, to _not_ have someone who can read every nuance and unspoken thought in his words.

Maybe a little bit of both, he decides. He can’t wait for Travis to be out of his head, but honestly, he’s kind of gotten used to it.

There are lights, he realizes, pinpricks of stars in the blackness. Small, almost unnoticeable, but now that’s he looking he can see them, now that he’s not being drained empty by the void in Travis’s soul. (Wes doesn’t know if that’s actually him, getting used to it, or if Travis is being a buffer of some sort. The pressure in his own heart is so different from this _nothing_ inside of Travis.)

The stars are distant, but he knows that they mean. Hope in the darkness, something to look towards even when it seems like there’s nothing there. Wes had it too; sometimes it’s the only thing to reach for at rock bottom.

_Where are you?_ he asks, looking around the empty space. _What are you made of, Travis?_ Because he knows this can’t be it, this can’t be _everything_. No one could live with this sort of void in their hearts. A person this empty would be nothing, and Travis is so much more than _nothing_.

Travis grips him tight and spins them around, and he doesn’t say a word but he doesn’t have to.

Inside Travis’s heart is the sun.

It burns, a massive orb of fire and molten rock. Even from here Wes can feel the heat, a steady furnace inside of Travis’s chest, constantly pulsing with no sign of going out. But he can feel the emotions behind the fire too, anger and resentment and pain, feelings that started when he was a child and only grew as he did.

Wes stares at the sun and thinks no _wonder_ Travis keeps everything he’s feeling behind a wall. Not just to escape from the crushing loneliness, but to hold this back. If he let this out, it would be… _explosive_.

Travis clears his throat. _So…_

Wes’s thoughts are a mix of _It’s beautiful_ and _You’re beautiful_ combined with _You have so much passion inside of you_ , all jumbled together, and from the way Travis sort of sputters nervously Wes is pretty sure every single nuance made its way to his partner.

He coughs and tries to cover it up. _Well, I always knew you were a hothead_ , he grumbles, flushing, and Travis barks out a laugh.

_That’s what I like about you, Wes, you never hold back_. It sounds light-hearted and carefree, the way Travis always is, but right now they’re standing in Travis’s heart and he’s anything but.

(Wes understands. More than anyone else, he understands. Weren’t their positions reversed just a little while ago?)

_Travis_. He shifts, looks Travis right in the eye. As sincerely as he can, he says, _I think you’re amazing._

Travis flushes and looks away, and the sun flares. _I’m not. I’m nothing special. I’m just an angry foster kid with abandonment issues. I’m so textbook it hurts._

Which is true, at the barest bones. But then, at the barest bones, Wes is a hard-assed OCD control freak, and Travis said he was made of diamond.

_It’s a metaphor, remember?_ Wes cajoles, nudging Travis to look at his heart. For the same reasons Wes couldn’t see what Travis saw, Travis can’t understand what Wes is seeing right now. And right now, it’s Wes’s job to explain it to his partner, so maybe Travis will understand.

_It’s a metaphor about a light that never goes out no matter how much empty space surrounds it._ Wes gestures at the expanse, at the glimmering lights so far away and the void that just gets darker the more he stares at it.

_You’re always looking outward so you don’t realize,_ he adds, _but you are amazing, Travis._

He feels Travis swallow hard beside him, watches the sun flare again. _You think so?_

Wes doesn’t say a word, but every ounce of feeling goes to Travis, and it all says, _Absolutely._

Travis’s unraveling happens slowly, then all at once, like a fuse sparking off dynamite. Travis explodes, and Wes lets the power of the blast travel through him and follows his partner to pieces.

They’re both panting by the time they reorient in the space between them, clinging to each other and trembling. The storm is almost calm now, just restless winds and agitated torrents now. No longer a hurricane rising between them.

They cling to each other, and they don’t look at each other, but they bleed into one another, mixing in the most intimate of ways that has nothing to do with their bodies.

_Do you think that’s all?_ Wes asks, staring at the ceiling.

Slowly, Travis props himself on an elbow, grinning mischievously. _I don’t know. We should probably try one more time. Just to be sure._

And Wes can only laugh breathlessly and swat weakly at Travis’s arm. _You cad._

_That’s not exactly a no._

Wes smiles, tugs Travis down and brings their lips together. _No, it’s not._

\---

This time, when they fall apart, they do it together, in perfect harmony.

Two bodies.

One soul.

\---

Slowly, they come back to themselves, to a scene of total, exhausted stillness. In the place where sky and water meet, the winds are still and the water barely ripples.

They hold each other and don’t say a word, but they don’t need to.

Not anymore.

\---

(Later, they will realize that there are pieces of each other within themselves. When he is feeling most defeated, Wes will feel a flicker of burning fire in his chest, a remnant of the blaze inside of Travis, urging him onward and forward, never giving up, passion brought alive. When he is feeling most reckless, there will be a moment of pressure in Travis’s stomach, a pebble of stability that urges caution and makes him think things through, just for a moment.

They have broken themselves to pieces and handed over their hearts. It only makes sense that some of the shards became misplaced.

It is not something, they realize, they are upset about. It just takes some getting used to. But that is for later, when they have made their peace with what has happened between them and the changes it has wrought.)

\---

_Travis_ , Wes thinks, sometimes in the middle of the night, _everything is going to be different now._

_Don’t think about it_ , Travis advises sleepily. _Don’t think about tomorrow. Think about right now. Right now is good._

Right now _is_ good. Unfortunately, Wes can’t just _not_ think about tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that…

_Shhh_. Travis wraps his arms around Wes, sends sleepy tendrils of thought into Wes’s head to chase away the scurrying worries.

_Relax, babe_ , Travis murmurs. _We’ll deal with it later._

_But…_

_Go to sleep, Wes. Stop thinking._

_I don’t know if I can._

Travis sighs and pulls him close. _I’ll show you how._

And he does. He wraps around Wes and gently pulls him under and they sleep.

\---

Something is different. He notices it the moment he wakes. Not just between _them_ , because all sorts of stuff is going on with _them_ that they’ll need to parse out. Something is different in the bond itself, like the edges have faded a little. Like somehow, there’s less of _them_ being shared.

Travis stares at the ceiling and prods gently at the back of his mind. Yes. Definitely less _Wesness_ in his brain than yesterday. A sort-of almost smile curls his lips as he probes the edges of the bond again. There’s nothing _broken_. It’s just this gentle sort of fading.

_Stop that_ , Wes grumbles at him, face-down in the pillow. He’s sprawled all over Travis like a limpet so Travis couldn’t get up if he tried, and Travis thinks it’s awfully cute how clingy Wes is when he’s asleep.

_I will stab you. In the face._

_Oh, come on, it’s adorable_. Travis grins, shifting and wiggling until they’re spooning. Wes is the little spoon. _Stop being a grumpy face._

Wes isn’t even facing him but Travis can feel the scorch of his glare on the side of his head. _I’m exhausted. I haven’t slept well in two nights. Stop jabbing at my brain._

_Jabbing?_ Travis grins, pressing his lips against the back of Wes’s neck. _Babe, that was a gentle love tap._

_I’ll show you a gentle love tap,_ Wes mutters, but the image he sends is neither gentle nor loving. Travis grimaces and hugs Wes around the waist.

_On the bright side_ , he offers, _I think it worked._

There’s a moment of silence, and Travis can feel Wes slowly waking up, prodding the edges of the bond. And then he can feel the delight, as well as the apprehension.

Delight at the thought of being apart, because these past few days have been a trial for both of them.

Apprehension at the idea of being separated, because how can you let go of someone who’s been inside your heart?

Travis understands. Of everyone in the world, Travis is probably the only one who understands.

He just clings tighter and kisses the skin at the top of Wes’s spine.

_You keep saying it, don’t you? We’ll be fine._

_But…_ And isn’t it funny, that Wes is the one so unsure and worried about this. Travis is usually the one shying away from relationships, even the thought has him running.

But this is _Wes_ , and Wes has always been the exception to the rule.

_It’ll be fine, Wes_. Another kiss, and Travis slides his hands down. _We’ll be okay. Let me show you._

\---

This time it’s slow, gentle, smooth zephyrs easing overthrough quiet ripples. Emotions bubble, things they’d kept hidden in the depths of their hearts, but they’ve already shared everything with each other. What else is there to hide?

They shatter slowly, together, but it’s a tender cresting, and they fall back light as feathers.

\---

_I’ve figured it out_ , Wes thinks drowsily.

_Hmm?_ Travis runs his fingers through Wes’s hair and doesn’t open his eyes.

Wes shifts, running his fingers across Travis’s chest. _You. I’ve figured you out._

_Oh?_

_Uh-huh_. Wes nods sleepily against his shoulder, fingers never ceasing. _You take care of people so you don’t have to deal with your own problems. You act fine so no one looks too close and you smile so everyone thinks you’re alright._

“Really?” Travis mumbles, sounding mildly amused but mostly sleepy. _Is that so?_

“It is so.” Wes sighs, pats Travis’s chest. _See, I realized you’re just as screwed up as the rest of us. Maybe more so. You’re just better at hiding it. You are a deceiving liar of the greatest magnitude._

Travis opens one eye and smirks. “Shh. Don’t tell. That’s my superpower.” He closes his eyes again. _Superman’s the cool one. Clark Kent is just a loser with abandonment issues._

“Oh no.” Wes pushes himself halfway up, glaring at Travis. “I refuse to be Lois Lane in this scenario.”

“Of course you’re not Lois. Your superpower is to keep people away with snark and cynicism.” Travis tugs Wes back down. _You’re obviously the Batman to my Superman._

Wes huffs but lets himself be cuddled. _I don’t think Batman and Superman ever did THIS._

Travis’s quiet amusement reverberates between them. _Depends on what part of the Internet you go to_. He shoots a memory of a particularly vivid scene stumbled on, courtesy of a foster sister a few years back.

Wes smacks him. Travis just laughs.

\---

They finally crawl out of bed at noon, because Wes gets a compulsion to wash the sheets. Travis is hungry anyway, so he indulges himself and orders room service while his partner indulges his own neuroses.

_I don’t have neuroses_ , Wes says from the bathroom where he’s soaking the sheets in the sink (“Because I’m not going to bring these down to the laundry room, are you kidding me? I’ll soak them here and let the maid service do the rest, it’s the easier solution,” and any other time Travis would make fun of Wes but he can feel how much Wes needs to do this so he says nothing and just picks something absurdly healthy-sounding from the menu).

_Dude, you are a bundle of neuroses. Any more and you’ll be committed. Our therapist could buy a beach house working through your problems._

Wes sticks his head out of the bathroom with a scowl. “You’re not so sane yourself. She could buy a Lamborghini to go with the beach house digging through your head.”

Travis leans back on the bed with a grin. “Then we ought to be glad she’s not, eh?”

Wes rolls his eyes and returns to his mission. Travis doesn’t get the point, Wes is only going to have to scrub the sink as soon as he’s done ( _Thanks for reminding me_ , Wes grumbles as the thought filters through) but hey, if it keeps Wes ticking along, it’s all good. Whatever floats his boat.

“Seriously,” Wes calls, “the water puns. They’re horrible. You should stop.”

“Not in a million years,” Travis calls back, grinning at the wall.

Travis has never been here before. Oh, he’s been _here_ , in his romantic partner’s rooms after a night of passion and fun, but normally at this point he’d be out the door with little more than a ‘See ya later’. He’s never been _here_ , at this point, where he’s content to stay and wait for food and eat breakfast and, possibly, if he’s feeling up to it, talking about _feelings_.

He’s never been here, but he finds he’s not that inclined to run.

It’s Wes. Wes has always been the exception.

Travis leans his head back and thinks that this is a very good place to be.

\---

Room service arrives, and Travis, unsurprisingly, dives right in. He’s got half his plate finished, it seems, before Wes even has a chance to pick up his fork. Wes pokes listlessly at his heart-healthy omelet and manages to take a few bites, if only to keep his energy up, but he’s not feeling it. His stomach is tense and knotted, and he can’t help thinking—

He’s not thinking anything, not right now, not with Travis still in his mind. The bond is fading but it’s still _there_. So it’s all good. Last night was good, and this morning was good, and nothing has to change just because he’s upset about something that won’t happen. It’s _fine_ , everything is fine.

It would be so much easier to convince himself of that if he couldn’t still feel Travis in the back of his mind.

Eventually, Travis sighs and puts down his fork, and Wes knows he’s been caught. “Alright,” his partner says, “What’s with you?”

Wes pokes at the fruit that came with his omelet and shrugs. “Nothing.”

“Really?” He can _hear_ the flat disbelief in Travis’s voice reverberating in his skull. _You’re really trying to lie to me now?_

And Travis has a point, the very last thing Wes should be doing right now is lying to Travis. He can save that for when they’re not psychically connected and Travis can feel his emotions when he speaks.

Wes spears a piece of cantaloupe, and, with no other recourse, pops it in his mouth. _It’s nothing, Travis._

“You’re upset.” Travis is watching him, studying him from every angle. But he doesn’t take one step over the line between them, keeping his promise even after everything they shared last night. Not taking one inch more than Wes is giving.

(For that, Wes falls a little bit more, but he grabs the emotion tight before it can bubble to the surface and escape.)

“Why are you upset, Wes?” Travis asks, gentle and soft, caretaker tendencies coming out. Because focusing on Wes means Travis doesn’t have to focus on Travis.

_I’m allowed to care about you without it being a diversionary tactic for my own emotions, Wes,_ Travis grumps, just enough ire to make Wes’s lips quirk a little.

_I suppose so_ , he offers back, stabbing a strawberry quarter. This one he doesn’t eat, just skates it around his plate. “Everything is going to be different now.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Travis offers, but there’s a little bit of _We can make it work_ and a lot of _I don’t want it to be different, nothing good happens when things change_ , and Wes agrees with that sentiment whole-heartedly, but he just doesn’t see _how_ things could _possibly_ stay the same.

“It’s not like we can just pretend it didn’t happen,” Wes says, slumping in his chair. He twists his fork, watching the strawberry on the end spin just so he can avoid looking at his partner. (Not yet. Not just yet.) “Last night was…”

“Amazing?” Travis supplies, all cock-sure arrogance and smarm, but it’s deflection, a mask to hide the nervousness that’s churning inside of him because he doesn’t know where Wes is going with this, doesn’t know if he’s going to like this, and Travis’s nervousness is making Wes’s stomach roil. “Mind-blowing? The best sex you’ve ever had in your life?”

They’re closer now than they’ve ever been, closer even than when they accidentally made a bridge between their brains in the first place, and Travis is transmitting things even without meaning to. It makes Wes wonder how much of what _he’s_ currently feeling is getting through, even with all he’s trying to hold back.

The thought makes him uncomfortable, and he shies away.

“Last night was _intense_ ,” he settles on, shifting in his seat. “And intimate. And I don’t see how things can possibly go back to the way they were.”

“That’s because you’re not trying hard enough.”

“Travis, after everything we know—”

“Oh, come on, what do we know?” Travis waves an imperious hand. “You have panic attacks and control issues. I have a knack for suppression and abandonment issues. What part of that is _new?_ ”

Wes scowls across the table. “Um, all of it.”

The look Travis shoots him is mournful and mildly pitying. “Babe, I knew from the moment we met that you had control issues. You starched your cuffs, Wes. _Starched_ ‘em.” He gives an absent shrug. “Okay, the panic attacks were a bit of a surprise, but come on, it’s not like it was a _shocker_. With all your baggage?”

Wes stiffens, scowl turning into a glare. “I do not have _baggage_.”

“Dude, you do and you know it. You’re funding Dr. Ryan’s beach house, remember? It doesn’t _mean_ anything. You’re still the same old neurotic bastard I’ve been partnered with.” Travis shrugs like it’s no big deal, pops another bite of pancake into his mouth. _And seriously, I’m a foster kid. I’m so textbook it hurts, remember? It’s not like any of this we couldn’t have guessed before._

Wes pokes at his breakfast again. “I guess…” Travis may have a small, minor point. A _miniscule_ point. They already knew so much about each other _before_ this happened. But now…it’s all different now. It _has_ to be. Things can’t just be _normal_ after something this earth-shattering.

“It can be normal if we try,” Travis points out, sipping his juice. “Isn’t it weird how I’m the rational one here? Is this how you feel all the time? It’s kind of heady, I can understand why you like it.”

“You’re not being rational—you’re being stubborn and obstinate.” Wes retorts hotly. “Which is no different from your normal self, so nothing’s different at all.”

And then Travis grins, long and slow, and says oh-so-approvingly, “Ex _act_ ly.”

Wes flushes, looks down at his plate, and stabs his fruit again.

With a sigh, Travis sets down his fork and leans forward. “Okay, seriously, what’s wrong Wes?” 

He feels like the fork is going to snap in half, he’s gripping it so hard. He’s not normally one to avoid saying what’s on his mind; he usually filters for politeness and lets it go, but nothing about this is _normal_ and it hasn’t _been_ normal for two-going-on-three days now.

But it seeps through anyway, a pleading, unsure, _What do you want, Travis?_ that makes Travis pause with his fork halfway to his mouth.

“Wes?”

Wes studies his plate like it has the secrets to the universe written on it. “It’s okay,” he assures his partner, “It’s fine. You’re right. Nothing’s changed. We’ll just go back to the way it was before. Nothing has to change.” He can be normal. Everything can go back to the way it was. It will be _fine_.

(Denial is a state Wes is very good at being in.)

Slowly, Travis’s fork lowers to his plate. The dull ‘clink’ sounds loud, and he can feel Travis studying him, eyes probing like he can understand what Wes is talking about just by looking.

“Man, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“It’s okay,” Wes says again, and oh god, he thinks he’s babbling, he hasn’t done that since he was a teenager. Wes pushes his plate away, folds his napkin repeatedly. “It’s all fine. I promise. So you don’t…we can just be normal.”

“Wes—”

“You don’t _do_ relationships, Travis.” Travis’s teeth click together when his mouth snaps shut. Wes doesn’t look up, creases his napkin again. Again. Again. “So it’s _fine_. It’s all fine.”

Wes feels… _that_ , for Travis, way down in his chest, and he knows Travis does too, felt it last night when they tore open their hearts and scattered the pieces. But they’re both broken people; Travis is too torn up by abandonment issues and childhood trauma to manage, and Wes suffocates the people he’s with until they have no recourse but to leave or drown with him.

Travis is quiet for a long moment before venturing with, “We could…” And he doesn’t even have to finish the sentence for Wes to know where he’s going with this, the images flow into Wes’s brain.

They could. They could do all that and more, and for a while it would be good. But there’s a reason Travis doesn’t do relationships that has nothing to do with how physically compatible his partners are, and Wes has seen the aftermath of those short-lived relationships.

If Travis were to ever look at Wes the way he looks at some of his exes…

For the first time since this conversation started, Wes looks up, meets his partner’s eyes, and his gaze is sad. “No, Travis, we can’t, and you know it. You don’t do relationships, and you have your reasons. And I…I _can’t_ , right now. Neither of us are in a place where we can have a relationship that won’t crumble if we tried. And that’s the last thing I want.”

_Me too_ , Travis hastily reassures him, which is a relief, that Travis wants to keep them together, even without sex, as much as Wes does. He’d been afraid, for a moment…

Travis gives him a tight little smile, setting his fork down. “You said it, didn’t you? You didn’t leave, but I didn’t leave either. Not back then, and not now.” Impulsively, because that’s what Travis _is_ , impulsivity and passion and energy, he reaches out and grabs Wes’s hand. “I’m not leaving because of this. We’ll figure it out.”

Wes chuckles weakly, thumb folding over the crease in his napkin again. “God, you are such an _optimist_.”

“Why you gotta say that like you mean ‘idiot’, huh?”

_I said what I meant. Anything else was you extrapolating._

Travis chuckles, but he squeezes Wes’s hand and reassurance floods in. “We’ll be okay, Wes. We always are.” He leans back, and if Wes were simply looking he would think Travis was the most confident person in the world. “We always manage to defy the odds.”

Wes looks at their joined hands, feels a tightness in his throat and swallows hard. “You really think we could make this work?”

The hesitation Travis makes is as telling as anything he might have said. Despite himself, Wes aches, and he slowly pulls his hand free.

Travis grabs him again before he can go too far. _You’re right_ , he says hastily, _you’re right, we’re not there yet, neither of us. But babe, we’ll get there_. He gives Wes a brilliant smile, the one that says _Everything is going to be fine, I promise_ , and it makes people believe. “We’ll get there, Wes.”

_You really think so?_

_I really do._

Wes looks at their hands again and feels something awful and warm rising up in his chest. _Hope_. Hope that Travis is right, that they could really make this work, if they take their time and don’t rush things and ease their way into it.

“We’d need Dr. Ryan,” he says, one last deterrent, because it’s true. They have too many problems and neither of them are going to get fixed by themselves—they’ve tried that and look where they are. If they want to do this, and do it _right_ , they’ll need professional help, and Dr. Ryan is the only one they trust even close to well enough to do that.

Travis flinches, more a general _I don’t like shrinks_ than any aversion to Dr. Ryan in particular. But he squeezes Wes’s hand again and says, “I’m game if you are.”

And…well…if that’s the case.

Slowly, Wes nods. _I guess…I’m willing to give it a shot._

The smile Travis sends him floods through him, warmth and affection. Wes lets it wash over him and for a moment isn’t apprehensive even a bit.

\---

The link continues to fade slowly. Wes doesn’t really notice it, until he feels Travis poking at the end of their breakfast-slash-lunch. _It’s smaller already_ , Travis says, prodding, and it’s rather unsettling, really, to feel someone poking his brain.

Wes pokes right back, both as retaliation and to see how much the bond has shrunk. _I think it might be gone by dinner_ , he remarks, settling onto the couch.

Travis flops down next to him, crowding up in his space, totally ignoring their plan to take things _slow_. “So we’ve got the whole day ahead of us,” Travis remarks, snuggling against Wes’s side like he’s a cuddler (but he’s not, Wes knows this for a fact. _Maybe I am for you_ , Travis shoots back with a lascivious grin, and Wes can’t help but flush).

“I was going to work on paperwork,” Wes says blandly, inching out of Travis’s clinging grasp.

Travis pulls a face and follows, refusing to let Wes escape. “ _Paperwork?_ Dude, if it’s not a case you shouldn’t be bringing it home.” He runs his fingers up Wes’s thigh, because they slept together once (“It was more like four times and it was _amazing_ , Wes,”) which apparently means all boundaries can henceforth be crossed.

Wes crosses his legs and glowers at his partner’s hand. His partner does not take the hint. “I refuse to be behind on my paperwork just because you want to laze about all day.”

Travis leers, leaning in to nuzzle Wes’s neck and _oh_ , his breath is hot and warm against Wes’s skin. _Wasn’t really planning on lazing, babe, if you know what I mean._

Travis really couldn’t be clearer on what he means, and at this rate Wes is going to either punch him or give in. (If he’s going to be honest here, he’s probably leaning towards the latter.)

So, really, it’s probably a good thing the phone rings when it does.

Travis sighs, pulling away, and pulls out his cell. “Yeah, Kendall, what do you want?” he asks, rolling his eyes.

After a second, he puts the phone down and hits the speakerphone button.

“Okay, Wes, you there?”

Wes glances at Travis, who gives him a baffled _I have no idea_ eyebrow. “Yeah, Kendall, I’m here.”

“Good. Okay. Are you sitting down?”

“We both are,” Travis reports.

“Okay. Right. You have to do it.”

Travis and Wes share a long look. “Do…what, exactly?” Wes asks slowly, though he has a suspicion.

She heaves out a breath. “You have to do the _do_. You know. Sex. You have to.”

Yeah. That was his suspicion.

“Why?” Wes asks, ignoring the slow grin blooming on Travis’s face. _Stop that_ , he orders as Travis wiggles his eyebrows, running his hands over Wes’s thighs again.

“I was doing some more research, okay, and you have to. It’s not an option,” Kendall says, words coming out in a flurried rush. “I said a week, but that’s not—you were right, Wes, when you said people can’t live knowing each other this well. If you don’t have sex and break the bond, you’ll both go insane and kill yourselves. _That’s_ why your victims died, not because they couldn’t handle it. You have to sleep with each other, and soon, or you won’t make it.”

Wes bats Travis’s hands away, because his partner is a teenage boy stuck in a man’s body. “We’re fine, Kendall,” he assures her, glaring at Travis. _Stop. That._

_Not on your life, babe_ , Travis replies, draping himself over Wes’s lap.

If Wes were truly annoyed, he would push Travis right onto the floor.

He debates doing that anyway.

“You don’t understand!” Kendall says urgently. “You don’t have that much time! You have to do it or you won’t make it!”

“Kendall,” Travis says in his _You can trust me I’m a police officer_ voice, “We’re _fine_.”

“But you—oh.” There’s a long silence on the other end of the line. “ _Oh_. Really?”

Travis grins because he also has the sense of humor of a teenage boy and says, “Oh, _really_.”

Now Wes _does_ push him off the couch.

“Oh,” Kendall says over Travis’s cursing. “Okay. Um…well then. I guess…never mind.” She coughs. “Uh…enjoy your day off, guys.” She hangs up in a hurry, and Wes glares at his partner.

“Thank you. That was completely awkward. It’s probably going to be around the office in an hour.”

Travis smirks up at him. “Come on, you didn’t expect this to happen when you heard the only way to cure this was to have sex?”

“No, I did not. Stop that with your eyebrows, it’s juvenile and not as appealing as you seem to think.” Wes stands, stepping delicately around the lump on the floor. “Now if you’ll excuse me…”

A warm, dry hand wraps around his ankle. _Hey, Wes_ , Travis cajoles through the link, looking up at him with those big blue eyes. He doesn’t say anything else, but he doesn’t have to. Wes can feel it all, passing to him in the glimmer in Travis’s eyes and the way he runs his thumb over Wes’s ankle bone.

Wes melts a little, musters up a small but sincere smile. “I’m not going anywhere, Travis. I promise.” He sends his reassurance back through the link, and he waits until Travis lets go before stepping away. Because he knows now how much it hurts when people walk away from Travis first.

“You can always help me with my paperwork,” Wes calls out as he grabs his work. “Or better yet, you could do your own.”

Travis groans, rolling over and burying his face in the carpet. _You’re a slave driver_ , he mumbles half-heartedly.

Wes chuckles, settling back onto the couch with his reports. Amused, he props his feet on Travis’s back and clicks his pen. “I’m _productive_. Unlike some people, I plan to use my time wisely.”

He can’t see it, but he can feel Travis’s grin. Then he feels Travis’s hand snake up his calf, intent on distracting him from his work. _We’ll see about that, shall we._

He smacks Travis’s hand with his folder, and Travis laughs, and really, it feels just like any other moment of banter-slash-flirting they’ve ever shared.

Travis is right. Wes holds that thought close (don’t want to let Travis get a swelled head), but he thinks Travis is right about this. They’re not there yet, but they’ll get there.

And in the meantime, they’re going to be just fine.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from by a poem/lullaby from C.S. Lewis’s The Chronicles Of Narnia series.
> 
> This is one of the longest things I’ve ever written and completed, and I’m so pleased with how it turned out. There was a lot of frustration and indecision and insecurity, but with perseverance and the help of my lovely beta, I got through. Thank you so much, empathy.
> 
> Theme song for this fic: Flaws by Bastille. It’s so Wesvis it hurts.
> 
> P.S. I rated it T+ because no actual sex occurs, just metaphor and talking about it, but if anyone really really feels this should be rated higher, let me know. I wasn’t sure.


End file.
